


Blutrunst

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Cannibalism, F/F, F/M, Finally Resolved, Gen, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, leprosy, leprosy doesn't work like that jeez, neighborhood AU, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 166,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enoch Barnes, the mayor of Pottsfield, has an old friend who would just love to have him for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Door

> “It seems in all Märchen of Bluebeard, wherein his Blutrunst [flowing of blood] is not rightly explained, the idea...[was]...through bathing in blood to cure himself of the blue beard; as the lepers." --Wilhelm Grimm

* * *

 

It had been a dare.

It’s hard to be seven. All you want to do is prove yourself to the older kids and show them that you’re not afraid of anything, even if you are, maybe, a little.

His neck hurts. It’s hard to breathe.

He wants his mom.

They told him to sneak around in the old man’s house on the edges of the woods and bring back something from the second floor. At first he’d been really scared, because it looked like the old man still lived there, but he got up the steps and into the broken rooms upstairs without seeing the man at all.

He’d just reached out to pick up a chipped vase off a nightstand when something grabbed him and kept him from screaming.

It was hard to see. He wants his mom even more, but he can’t cry.

“Oh, there you are.”

The voice is beautiful, and he didn’t think boys could be described by that word, but it’s true. It's a deep voice, warm and soft and crooning to him.

“Poor little one. Just try to sleep.”

The voice comes closer and he squints, trying to see. The voice has no face, just a mask and nothing but black clothes.

“Shh, shh. Time to sleep, little one.” The voice hums and the masked face tilts slightly. “Here. Close your eyes. You just have to hang there...and wait.”

He’s tired. He’s scared.

His neck hurts.

The voice begins to sing. He knows the tune, Mom used to sing it, but he doesn’t know these words. The voice is beautiful and it’s getting hard to think…

It helps him fall asleep.

***

“Well, Miss Clara, you look just lovely today,” Enoch Barnes said as he strode into his office. The morning light was pouring in through the windows and caught his assistant's hair in a halo of pale gold.  It was a beautiful day in Pottsfield.  “That’s a new sweater, isn’t it? Charming color.”

“Good morning, Enoch, and it is! Thank you for noticing.”

“Not at all. Tell me, did I remember to send you those notes from Miss Langtree and her lovely father last night? I thought I did, but I’m afraid my head hit the pillow as soon as I was home and I might’ve forgotten…”

Miss Clara's fingers flew across her keyboard. “You did, and I just this moment sent them back to you with Chairwoman Mathers’ acknowledgement and approval.”

“Wonderful. What’s on our agenda this morning?”

“Not very much so far. Mr. Pearson would like to see you and talk about the fire department budget and Miss Elizabelle from the library would like to get you on the phone for a few minutes to discuss a new children’s program.”

“Excellent. I suppose Mr. Pearson’s down at the usual place?”

“He is, I think. Mrs. Pearson said he was on the back forty but he’d be available at any time.”

“I’ve got to stop making these house-calls, Miss Clara. It’s no good to be a mayor-about-town and leave the office empty at all hours of the day.”

Miss Clara laughed. “Oh, but you know people love it.”

“Well, anything to keep them happy. Is there anything else?”

“I left the minutes from the city council meeting on your desk with some highlights, along with the Gazette and the city newspaper, and I put a necktie on your chair. A real necktie.”

“Miss Clara Deen, you have slandered by bolo tie for the last time.”

“Probably not, sir. I picked the orange one; it flatters your complexion and it will look good with the dove gray suit at tonight’s Town Hall Meeting.”

“Very well...I defer to your fashion sense, Miss Clara. In this case, anyway. I’ll have my coffee and take any calls that come in before I amble down to go check on Mr. Pearson. If Miss Elizabelle calls, I’m here for her.”

“Yes, Enoch.” Miss Clara smiled prettily and adjusted her headset microphone closer to her mouth. She turned back towards her computer screen. “Mayor Enoch Barnes’ office, Clara Deen speaking. How can I help you this morning?”

Enoch walked through into his office and poured himself a cup of the fragrant coffee in the coffee maker. Rounding his desk, he sat heavily in his chair, putting the first dent of the week in the leather. It had already been a long few days, and it was only Thursday.

He fished his reading glasses out of his breast pocket and glanced over the minutes, making a few notes here and there before setting the packet aside. The presence of the Gazette was a formality. Between his own finger on the community pulse and Miss Clara Deen’s connections, to say nothing of his weekly coffee-meetings with Parson Bleak, he knew enough about his little town’s goings-on on any given week to fill the Gazette's pages six times over.

Now that he’d seen the minutes, that left only the city newspaper.

He glanced at the door and took a sip of coffee to wet his suddenly-dry mouth. He glanced at the clock. 9:12am. He had the time. Perhaps he could...indulge himself, just a very little bit.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve a little break. Yesterday had started with six different county council, judicial, and farmers’ union meetings from 8am to 2pm, then a community center open house all late afternoon, then dinner until eleven thirty with the Langtrees. Then the two days before had been back-to-back conferences in the capitol with the state comptroller’s office, and since he had been there he’d had to stick his nose in at the senate for the appearances of things…

And now, here he was in his quiet office with the door almost closed--never really closed, not unless he had a meeting--all alone with the city newspaper.

Who knew what had happened this week, after all? He certainly hadn’t had any opportunities to take a look. Whatever had happened, it was sure to be completely ghastly. The big city was such a horrible place, with all those murders and robberies and such sick, depraved crimes.

There was nothing like that in Pottsfield, god forbid. He’d never stand for it, for the threat it would pose to his beloved citizens. The worst they ever had to deal with was the odd car theft or perhaps a cow-tipping, but that almost always happened because of outsiders passing through. Pottsfield was a happy, peaceful little place, and he wanted it to stay that way.

Really. He did.

It was just…

A man had his urges, certainly, as did every mortal creature. Nothing harmful, no, just...an interest. A keen interest in, oh, call it the darker side of humanity.

Maybe he could take just a quick peek. Something to keep in mind for when he got home tonight.

He shuffled the newspaper around and dug out the police blotter, keeping one eye on the door.

The very first headline made him bite his lip and smile. “Human bones found in Gill County”. The subject matter was dry and of course there was no picture, but it was something to look up at home. It could be very interesting.

“Woman dies after car hits tree”, ho hum. “Skoulsborough man arrested in slaying of neighbor, police say,” hmm. Slaying? Sounds inadvertent, pass.

“Wal-Mart fire intentionally set,” disappointing.

He frowned. It seemed the news just wasn’t destined to be titillating today. How unfortunate. He’d have to get online and see if he could find something really exciting later this evening. Surely he could find a picture or two, maybe some lush speculation, perhaps take a glance at a crime-tabloid blog or two...just a little something to keep him warm after the Town Hall meeting.

He turned the page. There were sometimes some gems in the obituaries.

Oh, God. “Occult murder outside Woodlawn”.

Enoch gnawed on the inside of his mouth as he read.

_Authorities have discovered the remains of a young man, age 18-25, outside Woodlawn early this morning. The young man was discovered bound and kneeling in the graveyard of St. Dymphna's Church. Jemina Whispers, age 68, found the body while taking a morning walk with her niece._

_“It was horrible,” Ms. Whispers said. “That poor young man, just sitting there, naked, with those scars on his back. And that face!  Oh, my poor Lorna had to help me home, after the shock.”_

_The young man appears to have died from trauma to the neck. In addition to some superficial wounds, large chunks of leg and buttock-muscle are missing, as well as parts of his back, arms, and his entire face, including the eyes. The antler of a deer had been shoved into his mouth and down his throat, and the significant mutilation, presence of sigils painted on the skin, and the fact that the eye sockets were stuffed with ash suggests an occult symbology connected to the case._

Oh, this was lurid. This reporter could not be long for the world of objective, cut-and-dried police reporting, if this was how they painted a picture. How could they publish this kind of thing? It was perfectly obscene.

God, it was good. Enoch’s cock pulsed in his trousers and he tried to control the heady heat throbbing in his veins. The antler of a deer? Down his throat?

Enoch spread his legs slightly, trying to relieve the pressure. Oh, yes, the very image, that ripe young man set up like an offering to some kind of hideous death god, so beautifully arranged, so carefully designed, like a tableau, like a seduction...

The phone jangled on his desk.

He cleared his throat, flipped through the papers until he landed on the Arts and Leisure section, and answered his telephone.

“Miss Elizabelle on the phone for you, Enoch,” Miss Clara said.

“Thank you, I’m available,” Enoch said, taking a deep breath and chasing it with a slurp of coffee. He didn’t dare close his eyes to compose himself, not with that decadent vision of the young offering so fresh in his mind.

“Enoch!” chirped the sweet, somewhat wavery voice of old Miss Elizabelle. “Good morning, dear! How are you?”

“Good morning to you, Miss Elizabelle. I’m doing just fine.” And he was calming down, what was more important. “I trust I find you much the same?”

“Me? Oh, yes, Enoch, thank you. I suppose things must be very busy over there by now!”

“Actually, I’d just opened the paper when you called.”

“Really? What were you reading, my dear? I’m always curious about these kinds of things! Librarians, you know.”

He chuckled. Miss Elizabelle was a dear, chatty little creature and the fondness was sincerely meant, but a warm chuckle was also a fantastic stalling maneuver.

“Ah, just taking a look at Arts section.”

“Oh, I might’ve known! You and your theatre.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I suppose you’ll go to see The Flying Dutchman as soon as it comes out!”

“Really? Do you think I should?”

“Aren’t you a fiend for opera, Enoch?” Miss Elizabelle asked. “I could’ve sworn you were.”

“Not I, Miss Elizabelle.”

“But you were! Why, I distinctly remember that back in the winter of ‘93 you were just raving about that opera! Of course, that was back when Herod Bethlehem was still singing downtown, and he was a chilling Dutchman!”

Enoch’s eyebrows rose.

Herod Bethlehem. Now there was a name he hadn’t thought of in a long, long time.

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said. “That’s right--he was a good Dutchman, wasn’t he?”

“Such a sad story,” Miss Elizabella murmured. “Such a mystery! The poor man. But! Perhaps this will be a good show? I’ll rely upon your recommendation before I buy my ticket, Enoch!”

“Well, with that kind of trust placed in my abilities, Miss Elizabelle, I cannot bear to disappoint you,” he said, shuffling his paper around. “I shall take in the show and come back with a full report. Now, what was it you wanted to discuss about the library?”

When he finally managed to get Miss Elizabelle’s concerns settled, about forty five minutes later, he ambled out of the office and smiled at Miss Clara.

“I’m off to go see about Mr. Pearson,” he said. “Please direct any calls to my mobile.”

“Of course, Enoch.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the day rolled by. Mr. Pearson needed to discuss the volunteer fire department fundraiser and just before lunch Mr. Langtree called with some more questions about their conversation the previous night. Commander Brown of the Pottsfield Police Force contacted him requesting a meeting ASAP and he had to drop by for opening day at the Widow Mathers’ new grocery store to give a very quick ceremonial speech and take a photograph before the Town Hall meeting.

He got in his own door at 9pm, pretty early by the week’s standards, and stripped out of his suit coat and tie. Darn that Miss Clara, but when she was right she was right, and he did look good in the necktie. He made himself a little bite of dinner and glanced over his Friday agenda.

Breakfast meeting with the commander of the police, lunch with Parson Bleak (and it would take two hours, heaven help them), dinner with the Garden Club. It was May, so he would have to dress accordingly. He’d wear the white suit and the bolo tie slide with the red poppy design. And in a perfect world he’d pack an extra liver. Those ladies liked a G&T, and typically the T was but a suggestion.

Not too busy a Friday, which made for a refreshing change. Oh, it could be exhausting, even for a people-person, but at least it wasn’t conferences all day.

What was more, he had a little time here, now. He could unwind and recharge, while he wasn’t too tired.

Enoch put his dish in the sink to be dealt with later, poured himself a glass of wine, and headed upstairs. He walked into his bedroom, double-checked that the curtains were drawn, and brought his computer over to the bed, setting his glass on the nightstand and lifting the screen of the laptop.

He really shouldn’t have these. Of course, he wasn’t so ridiculous to save them to the hard drive, but he really shouldn’t even look.

When he had still been a teenager, it had been a scrapbook, and even then he’d felt the wrongness of this enough that he’d destroyed the collection before he left for college. Now, with the Internet, it was supposedly easier and more discreet, but if anyone were ever to record his search history…

Well, the semi-nightly scrubbings weren’t just for political reasons.

His hands quivered with anticipation. A few keystrokes--“Occult murder outside Woodlawn,” God, he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head--and then…

Oh. Look at him. Look how beautiful he was! His body was full-grown, but still so slender and young! The eyes, the trails of ash over the raw and skinless face, the exposed bone, the vulnerable tilt of the throat with the antler sunk deep into the lipless mouth, hands clasped like a Renaissance saint!

He gave himself a squeeze through his trousers, petting firmly as his eyes traced the lithe figure on the screen. Dark hair and brown skin, what was left of it so supple and lovely, but they’d taken most of the fleshy warmth of him away for God-knew what purpose. Flayed just enough to leave something to the imagination, dressed in arcane sigils, posed and waiting for salvation.

His own blood ran towards his hips and pulsed between his legs. Just imagine...imagine waking up in a city not his own, beyond his precious Pottsfield, but a crooked, wicked city of monsters, and walking out in the morning to discover...to stumble upon that sacrifice! That carnal offering to a death god, so sensual, so obscene!

How did the old woman maintain her composure? He’d utterly lose his wits, to happen upon something so deliciously arranged, with those swirls of green paint decorating the skin, with those gouge-marks, that face, uplifted like an angel’s! Or...oh, to have it left for him, a present for him, outside his front door...

He undid his fly and clumsily brushed the trackpad with the fingers of his right hand. Good. Beautiful. But there were more, he knew, lots more waiting for him…

Keystrokes, a rapid fumble in the bedside drawer, cool wetness over hot skin, and when he returned his attention to the screen, they were waiting for him.

Beautiful, all of them, in their endless parade. Profane and sacred, images of lovemaking in hell.

The living: the sick, the mutilated, the dying. Warm and wet and torn apart, pity and lust tangling at the sight of their unravelled figures and their inarticulate suffering. Raw and red, bones and nerves standing out cream and yellow, precious skin flayed back and eaten through. Acute agony, most hideous humiliation! To take them into his arms and hold and touch, to kiss and suck the stumps and gashes, to dip his tongue into the holes...

And the dead: the empty eyes, the slack lips, the way they are already gone far beyond his reach, that untouchableness of them; the way he didn’t want to touch them. The torn-away parts, the mundane and the exquisites, the stab wounds, the passionate, sloppy splatter of the innards and the demure, coquettish garrotte marks. The brains behind them, the unseen artists lurking in the dark, only appearing in the articulation of the body, the extension of the twisted limbs, the...oh, the theatrical genius of their modes and positions, each a rich oblation to Death, made from most precious, precious--

When he was finished, he wiped himself clean with a tissue and, humming, walked into the bathroom to take a shower.

Relaxed and refreshed, he returned to his computer, scrubbed the history, and typed “Herod Bethlehem” in the address bar.

It really was such a sad story.

Yes, in the nineties Enoch had been a fiend for opera, and no mistake. Half of it had to do with a genuine desire to expand his cultural horizons, but half of it had to do with the circles he had then been running in. Nothing was so good for making connections and being seen as artistic ventures, and in those wild, heady days he’d almost wanted to be a politician in the city. Sometimes one had to take the long way to get where they belonged.

At one of the galleries he’d found himself talking with the glittering grande dame of the fine art scene, Isolde Nymbostratus, and between her innumerable glasses of champagne and catty comments about passing literati, a slender, black-clad man in his thirties with his temples already going silver had been summoned to her side with a flash of her bejeweled hands and a “Yoo-hoo, darling!”

“Here you are at last,” the queen of the galleries had effused, brushing kisses on the man's cheeks. “Come back to us as a household name, and all you had to do was sell your soul to the Disney corporation.”

“Well, Philip Glass, anyway,” the man had replied. His voice had been exquisite, as if a panther, all the jungle-dark sleekness and citrine eyes, had licked its chops and begun to speak. The man had smiled at Enoch, lifting his glass and dipping his head to look at him through his long, dark eyelashes.

That expression had been so sly, so conspiratory, and under its power the two of them were suddenly united in their half-earnest indulgence of the older lady’s imperious humors. Enoch had found himself grinning.

“Hush, you,” Isolde had said, patting the young man on the arm. “I have someone you must meet. Enoch Barnes, my little shameless social climber, you must come, come, come and meet my beastie.”

“Beastie,” Enoch had echoed, eyebrows bobbing. “A pleasure. Enoch Barnes.”

“Herod Bethlehem, at your service,” the man had said. “I’m afraid Miss Isolde is trying to force a nickname upon me, in reference to my latest role.”

“It will stick!” Isolde had insisted. “Mark my words.”

“Anything for you, Isolde.”

“And it suits you to the floor, you acting so beastly by depriving us of your company for eight months!”

Herod had taken her hand and kissed it. “I am returned to you, my dear lady, and I am sure your sorrow and fear shall be easily forgotten. Now, tell me everything you know about this charming man.”

The rest of the evening had gone apace, whisking away from Herod and Isolde and thus from one half-bearable conversation to the next. The next time Enoch had ventured out to a dinner, Herod had accidentally been present, and from then on the connection had been cemented. Although they were never alone together, they got nightcaps after plays with the others in Isolde’s circle and often wandered in the same galleries, exchanging smiles and, at least on Enoch’s part, curious glances.

At first, despite his considerable charm, Herod had seemed very little different from any of these other talented, unprepossessing artists. Enoch had been just about to write him off for pleasant and hopelessly boring when he caught Beast--for so they had all come to call him, in accordance with Isolde’s prediction--standing in silent, smiling contemplation of Saturn Devouring His Son. Enoch had watched him, and Beast had happened to look up and catch him at it, and as their eyes met Beast had given him a predatory smile and licked his lips.

“Who’s hungry?” Beast had mouthed across the gallery.

They'd gone out for ribs.

They had started talking about books. Enoch had been pleased with what he’d seen. A handsome man well-versed in Baudelaire was easy to find, but one who read Une Charogne with such passion, well. A man who knew Dante and Rimbaud could come cheap, but one who loved them as much as Beast loved them, who devoured Blackwood in such intellectual ecstasy, who gushed over Shirley Jackson like a love-mad swain...

It had been refreshing, in the extreme.

(Perhaps a “crush” would not have been overstating his esteem.)

It had been natural enough that Enoch had gone to his performances, amused by the way the man really came alive on stage, beautiful music pouring from his mouth. Yes, Herod had loved his authors and his poets well enough, but how he adored his sinister Marschner, his haunting Bartok, his bloodthirsty Verdi, and his debauched and dancing Mozart. The roles the man had relished: a Macbeth barbarous and dripping red; a Bluebeard seething and staring and touching, caressing; a vicious, playful, cruel Mephistopheles; a seductive, sly, icy Iago.

Enoch had been very fond of opera, those years.

For some time this camaraderie had persisted, but then, quite cataclysmically...well. Beast had simply disappeared. Enoch had not been not in a panic. It was a sabbatical, they’d said, and he and Herod were not so close that, in those days of inconstant communication, Enoch had had any cause to think more of it. When a season or two had passed and Beast had not stuck his head back up, Enoch had been concerned, but he’d had no means of contacting the man. He had never even known where the man lived.

Already wearied to his bones of the Hill and the tedious tribulations of clerk life, Enoch had found his way back home to Pottsfield and quickly dove into the life of local politics, and had thought very little of his passion for opera since.

And yet even he, tucked away in his country town, remembered when the rumors started, the ones about Beast being very, very sick. Whatever it was, AIDS, cancer, or MS, it had destroyed his career and left him too weak and too terribly ill to perform.

With that kind of popular intelligence running around, Enoch had hardly dared to imagine the man was still alive.

Yet there he was, on the Google search page. Herod Bethlehem, a placid headshot of the man permanently fixed in the nineties; one of the mild pictures, with none of the secretive Saturnian bloodthirst that Enoch recalled and probably exaggerated in his memory. (The low, pleased warmth his beauties put in him was still clouding his judgement, surely.) Birth date, birth place, no spouse, no children, but more importantly no death date.

Enoch sipped his wine.

He wondered what kinds of property records a mayor’s office could turn up.

It was almost midnight, so he sent Miss Clara an email.

“If Saturday afternoon is still free,” he wrote, “please keep it that way.”

***

The Victorian house was a strange sight.

The house was painted with varying degrees of coverage and some of the windows in the upper floors lacked their shutters. From the front, he could see one window boarded up, but the other two broken panes had been left alone. The tower windows were blown open and a large hole gaped in the eastmost corner of the roof.

Yet the grounds were incredibly fine, and the first floor windows were whole and dressed with curtains and shutters. The brick walkway from the street to the door was lined with small, well-kept trees, and through their verdant thickness he could smell roses.

Enoch stood on the walk and marveled at the collision of culture and rot, before mounting the ten steps, careful not to touch the bare hooks where the handrail should be. He stepped across the porch to the door and knocked.

He listened hard for movement within for almost a minute. Just as he raised his fist once more, the door creaked very slightly open and then was thrown wide.

Enoch was not sure what he had been expecting, but it was not the spectre before him.

The figure was dressed entirely in black, a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, a pair of trousers, and a pair of shoes covering most of his body. He wore something else beneath his shirt to cover his neck and ears, and a cloth covered the top his head and fell to his shoulders. He was wearing black gloves.

His face was covered by a silver mask, set in the distant, untouched expression of a kouros. The only part of the man that Enoch could see were the eyes staring at him from within the mask, and the irises were a grey so pale they were almost white.

It was an uncanny sight. Enoch swallowed, viscerally intrigued.

“Yes?” that unchanged panther prowl of a voice asked, from behind the mask. “May I help you?”

He knew who it was, and yet he asked, “Beast?”

The figure’s spine went rigid and those eyes stared at him. Despite the lack of facial expression, he could tell that the figure was shocked.

At last, that silver face tilted, body language radiating curiosity.

“Enoch?” Beast said. “Enoch Barnes?”

He smiled. “Yes. Hello, old friend.”

Beast darted a look over his shoulder and opened the door wider. “What a pleasure. Please. Won’t you come in?”

Enoch stepped over the threshold and into a well-kept foyer.

He did not see Beast glower outside at the dour observer pruning the rose-bushes, before closing the door.


	2. Sitting Room

“Hey, Wirt?”

“What is it, Greg?”

“Why doesn’t anybody go to the house at the end of the street on Halloween?”

“I don’t now, Greg. I guess it’s just a creepy house.”

“But creepy is the point of Halloween! Leg-faced McCullen--”

“You know a kid named ‘Leg-faced’?”

“--said a ghost lives there, and I want to see it!”

“There isn’t a ghost, Greg. It’s just a weird old house with a weird old guy. You see him trimming his roses sometimes. I think he’s just an old coot or something.”

“And Antelope Guggenheim says--”

“You do not have a kid in your class named Antelope Guggenheim.”

“Shush! Antelope Guggenheim says that there’s an old witch up in that house, and he eats squirrels.”

“I don’t think there’s a witch, either. Let’s just...find your frog and try and catch up with Beatrice.”

“Okay.”

***

Enoch had never been gladder that his social skills worked on autopilot. He was in no fit state to be thinking critically.

They sat in Beast’s sitting room, a small, tastefully-appointed room with a fireplace and a few bookshelves. There was a fire in the grate, but it was gone to embers, smoking up the flue, and it did not warm the room. Above the mantle the mounted skull of a deer leered down at Enoch, fixing him between its antlers.

In comparison with the uneven exterior of the house, the inside was actually very handsome. As Beast had lead him back into the kitchen, Enoch had faintly noticed that the ceiling appeared to be in good condition and the walls were painted and dressed with more than a few dark, well-framed paintings. The hardwood floors were rich-colored maple and despite the lightness of the walls, the closed shutters and heavy curtains on the windows made the house seem dim.

Despite the closeness of the air and the warmth from outside, the air within the house was cool. If Enoch had a coat, he might actually want to keep it on.

Now, Enoch sat on an ancient sofa facing the fireplace. Beast had taken the armchair with his back to the grate. A cup of black coffee sat steaming untouched on the table between them and a huge black dog with bulging eyes and a foam of drool around its mouth sat at Beast’s side. Now and then it would lower its head and fix Enoch with its uncanny eyes, and growl. When that happened, Beast would let a gloved hand land on the dog’s head and distractedly pet, and the animal would fall quiet.

Enoch had never thought of this. It was too much to bear: the half-rotted house, the close-cut, threadbare black clothing, the expressionless mask, the mad dog, the faintly charnel scent in the air, the hint of terrible illness, the virtual promise of disfigurement, the mounted bones, the hard line of his host’s spine, the terrible eyes, the voice. Humiliated royalty, with his graceful gestures and his loyal hound and the careworn hems of his sleeves.

How could he not have imagined this?

Beast tilted his head and emitted a low, pleased hum of a sound at something Enoch said. He supposed that was a laugh?

He had no idea what they were talking about.

He had not been able to uncross his legs for twenty minutes. Much more of this and he would have to see a doctor, and that was not a conversation he was eager to have.

“--but any more thoughts about the baby must wait, as you can imagine, since Mr. Pike will not return from his tour overseas for another half year at least,” he found himself saying.

Really? Gossiping? That was all he had? Damn it. Beast didn’t know these people, couldn’t possibly care about these people.

Enoch took a gulp of his coffee, glad just to have something to put in his mouth. It was scalding hot and acrid, worse even than the cheap stuff they served at the Board of Education meetings. The sugar was old and had clumped together in the inconsistent humidity of the house, and now lurked as a syrupy ooze at the bottom of his cup.

Maybe it was poisoned.

Oh, God. He needed to leave.

“Well, it appears you’ve certainly found your niche, Mr. Barnes,” Beast observed, tilting his head back to gaze at him through the eyeholes with those indecipherable eyes. “It is encouraging to see one so happily settled, after a rather bumpy beginning.”

“Would you really call it bumpy? I thought it was a rather happy time.”

“I still recall you wandering aimlessly through galleries and sitting through concerts and conversations with your eyes glazing over.”

“Was it so obvious?” Enoch asked, wincing for Beast’s benefit.

Behind the mask, Beast’s eyes narrowed in a way Enoch was willing to believe was caused by amusement.

“Only for those who watched you closely,” Beast replied with an elegant shrug of his shoulders. He dropped his eyes to contemplate the animal at his side and ran his hand along the length of the dog’s head, before rising to his feet like a serpent swaying upright. He retrieved his cup from the coffee table. “More coffee, Mr. Barnes?”

Please, no. His stomach lining might actually break down.

“No, thank you,” he replied with a smile. “And please, it’s Enoch.”

“Ah. Is it, at that. Would you excuse me a moment?” Beast bobbed his head and moved towards the kitchen.

Enoch hastily adjusted himself and tried not to hiss. Embarrassing, but what could be done?

The dog seemed to consider his master’s movements for an instant before turning a look on Enoch and rising from his place on the floor. Enoch contemplated the dog. If he had to fight this animal off, it was just faintly possible he would win, but he wouldn’t come out the way he went in.

The dog slunk close, growling very softly and keeping his head down. Enoch let his hand sit on the sofa and watched carefully.

“Now, what sort of creature at you?” he murmured, slinging his voice low and soft. “Are you a good boy?”

The dog tilted its head and sniffed at him for several seconds. Enoch carefully brushed along the side of the animal’s ugly face and scratched behind an ear, and though the dog grumbled a little, its tail soon began to wave behind it.

“A very good boy,” Enoch crooned. “What’s your name?”

“Turtle,” replied the voice from the kitchen.

Enoch paused and felt his lips quirk to the side in what was probably a pretty silly expression.

“He is a rescue,” the voice added. “An absolute basket case when I got him. I did what I could to train him but I’m afraid the name, ridiculous as it is, had completely stuck.”

Enoch smiled and scratched the dog on its back, watching the wiry black and grey hair shift and fall. “You have a beautiful home, Beast.”

A noise from the kitchen sounded distressingly like a scoff, but it was quickly covered by a genteel little throat-clearing. “Thank you very much. I suppose I bought it in ‘92? The neighborhood has...changed a little since then.”

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t dislike it, if that’s the same thing. Suburbia has always been enough to make the skin creep, but at least we’re close to a nice slice of woodland. I suppose Woodlawn is much the same as any other place.”

That association was the last possible thing Enoch needed.

He rubbed the dog’s head, noting the lack of collar distractedly, and said, “Oh? This is Woodlawn?”

“Yes.” Beast came back into the sitting room with a small dish covered in pale, round cookies. He tilted his head in a way Enoch assumed was the equivalent of raising his eyebrows. “Do you like almonds?”

Cyanide?

He was being completely ridiculous.

“Love them,” he replied, taking a cookie. “Thank you. Didn’t I see Woodlawn in the news recently?”

“Perhaps you did,” Beast said easily. He sat in his chair and despite the food in Enoch’s hand, the dog quickly crossed the room again and plopped down at Beast’s side. “Forgive me if I don’t join you just yet. I’ve only just had lunch.”

At nearly six in the afternoon? Cyanide.

Enoch took a bite. The fragrance of the dessert alone was enough to make his mouth water, but the texture: crisp but tender, and though obviously homemade it was equally obvious that it had been made by someone who knew what they were doing.

“Delicious,” he said. Not a bad way to go, and it might soak up some of the coffee.

Beast bowed his head. “Thank you. Old recipe.”

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“I do,” Beast replied, petting one of the dog’s ears gently. “It has been my prevailing passion these past years, as this one can attest.”

“He gets the scraps, does he?”

“I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him very badly,” Beast said, patting Turtle once on the head and retracting his hand. It must have been some kind of recognized signal, for the animal lay down with his chin between his paws and closed his eyes.

“I’m sure I did hear something about Woodlawn just the other day,” Enoch pushed on. “Something about a murder in a graveyard? Horrible, horrible tragedy.”

Beast paused for a moment, apparently trying to recall. His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair.

“Ah, yes, that,” he said at last. “I remember now, I heard something about it on the radio. So very ghastly, to think it could happen so close to home.”

“It must have you locking your doors at night,” Enoch smiled.

“Oh, always that.  Let me see.  What was the name of the person who found him?  Mutters, Chattier...?"

"Whispers, I believe."

"Yes!" Beast said, crossing one leg over the other and gesturing with a forefinger.  "Ms. Whispers.  Elderly woman, has, I want to say, a niece of about eighteen or so.  They live nearly three blocks from here.  Very charming front garden.  I believe the niece is sickly in some way."

"It seems like a very shocking surprise to have sprung on an elderly woman."  Or on anyone.  Though perhaps 'electrifying' was more the word...

"I’m surprised you took any interest in the case, Enoch, but then you always were sort of morbid, weren’t you?” Beast seemed to smile. “I’d almost forgotten that about you.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘morbid,’” he replied. “Just touched by the suffering I see in the world.”

“Ah. Very deeply touched, yes.” Beast brushed his fingertips across his cold, motionless silver mouth. Enoch shifted in his seat. “St. Dymphna’s is very nearby, you know. I could take you down to the churchyard, if you would like to see the place where it happened. I think there’s still a few shreds of police tape up.”

Haunted house. Cyanide. A long walk past the sight of an occult murder.

He needs to go.

Now.

“I should be charmed, very charmed,” Enoch smiled, “and my inner ghoul could kill me for saying this, but I’m afraid I must be on my way.  It's a long ride back to Pottsfield.”

“Yes,” Beast drawled, “mustn’t keep the Friends of the Library waiting.”

“Ye gods and little fishes. Can you imagine the uproar?”

“I would not wish it on my worst enemy, to be sure.  Let me see you out,” Beast said, rising from his seat once more. Turtle bounced up and moved to follow, and Enoch did his best to gracefully rise to his feet.

“We should do this again,” Enoch said, grateful to be talking to Beast’s back.

“Indeed.”

“Can I meet you for dinner somewhere? Maybe in the week?”

Beast, just within the foyer, paused and glanced over his shoulder. Enoch raised his eyebrows a little, concerned.

“No,” Beast said. “No, I don’t really go out much, you see.”

“Oh,” Enoch said, a little taken aback by this abrupt dismissal.

Beast turned to face him completely and tilted his head a little to the left.

“Come to dinner here, instead,” he said, his voice warm. “Friday night. I would be very happy to cook for you, if you feel equal to braving my handiwork."

"After that cookie, I think I'm willing to eat anything you'd like to feed me," Enoch grinned.

Beast bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment.  "And who knows? Afterwards I might take you by the graveyard during Turtle’s evening walk.”

Enoch chuckled. “Friday, then? Let me check my calendar and I’ll call you to confirm.”

“You won’t,” Beast replied. “I’m afraid I don’t have a landline.”

Haunted house, indeed. Who didn’t have a phone? “That must be something of a safety hazard,” Enoch teased.

“Oh, very likely so. A letter is probably the quickest way to get in touch with me, if you mean to spare yourself the trouble of coming down.  Or perhaps a telegram.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to keep the night free, and if hell breaks loose I'll work it out. Can I bring anything?”

“I’m distractingly fond of red wine,” Beast replied. “And I imagine it would suit the menu.”

“Ah, that’s right: Italian operas, German philosophers, and French wines.”

“I’m touched that you remember, Enoch,” Beast said, an unmistakable smile in his voice. He reached for the doorknob. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Likewise,” Enoch agreed, and with a smile and a touch of his forefinger to his forehead, he left the house.

It wasn’t until he was actually on the brick walk that he heard the door close. Watched. He grinned and found a little extra spring in his step.

It was going to be a very long forty-minute drive home. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

***

There were some things one could not forget.

Stamped forever in the back corner of his mind was the sight of Isolde’s pink frosted lips forming the bright pop and hiss of his nickname, the word a little champagne burst to match her champagne-slick mouth. Where was she now, that starlet with laughing eyes and more noblesse oblige than she knew what do with?  He could hardly imagine.

She had not been here to call him by that name in a long, long time.

‘Beast,’ Enoch called him. Knew him immediately, without his face.

It had been a long, long time since anyone had called him that.

Herod closed the door behind his guest and stood for a moment in the foyer, recovering the equilibrium that had been so severely disturbed by seven feet and at least 380 pounds of bald, middle-aged man.  When was the last time he'd had to look up, to look someone in the eye?

A mayor! Enoch Barnes, mayor of Pottsfield, well-known figure, a man in the community who would be missed. Enoch was a little more weathered than he had been at twenty-four (but no surprise there), more lines drawn in his handsome, dark face, and no longer so clean-shaven and eager. He had ripened very nicely. It wasn’t every man who could wear his late forties so easily, or so vigorously.  He looked more than strong enough to snap Herod like a twig, at least.

And he was coming to dinner!

What on earth was he going to serve?

Herod moved through the hall, hearing Turtle trotting behind him as he approached the refrigerator and opened the door.

Yes, he’d roast the leg of lamb tonight and save the bone. He’d put on soup in the morning with the carrots and onions from the garden, and between that and the leftover roast he’d get through the weekend more than fine. Perhaps he’d make bread. But for Friday…

He consulted the freezer. It had to be simple, but not too simple. Understated and elegant. Something with a personal touch, certainly, enough to be unconventional and impressive, but not outlandish or worse, pretentious.  Something that Enoch didn't get at home.  

Small-town mayor, gossipy as a fish-wife, busy to the point of insanity with lots and lots of irons in the fire, politically astute but with too much heart to be a major player, faintly Philistine in his artistic tastes but willing to learn, as charismatic as a lamp in a conference of moths, probably fed up on fresh milk and dumplings, a lover of people, warm soil, and apple pie, absolutely with dripping wholesome American good-will…

A man like that would not have the time for an elaborate, slow-cooked something, with flavors that mingled as hours passed.  

The rest of the round, then. Herod had already had the rump itself and it was delectably tender. He could slice up the rest of the other leg and have a stew beef!

He closed the freezer and dug _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ out of the bookshelf. Oh, Julia Child, patron saint of cooks! How she rescued one from every mediocrity and embarrassment! Beef Bourguignon, perfect, that leg easily had three pounds of meat on it, and he had some white button mushrooms growing in the basement. He would make fresh orecchiette by hand, the perfect personal touch, and serve, oh, pâté for an hors d'oeurve.

Tomato paste and beef broth--oh, just use the soup broth, perfect--small white onions, cheap red wine, bacon...he could cut it from the belly, perhaps, and the smell would be roughly the same. Worth an experiment, and he could stretch the budget to send out for pork bacon if he decided against it.

He dug a little notepad out of a nearby drawer and scrawled down the necessary items. Three ingredients. Numbers, numbers. Eight dollars. Maybe six, if he got a very, very cheap bottle of wine. A little expensive, but…he’d have the leftovers and the excess pasta could be frozen for weeks.

He folded the slip of paper up twice. Time to give the assignment over.

Herod walked to the back door, peering through the eyehole before opening the door, stepping out onto the back-porch, and examining his garden. Turtle stumbled down the stairs and headed for the compost corner to do what had to be done.

He’d bought the house in ‘92, and if it had been a shack with enough room to fit a piano, he would’ve been content, as long as it had this backyard attached.

A small mosaic walk ran through his flower garden, funeral lilies as high as his hips, the branches of his rose bushes struggling to hold up their magnificent, splendid blossoms, and sprays of red carnations gleaming in the sunshine. Ten ornamental trees stood in two rows of five stood on the far sides of the central flower garden, and beyond those stood his vegetable and herb garden on the left and his...hobby garden on the right. Further back stood a small patio with a fountain, a wrought iron table and chairs surrounded by more of the ornamental trees, and a fence before the land gave way to the woods.

Lungs full of fresh air, he stepped down from the back porch and headed to the right. His little pets were coming along handsomely. He ran a finger along a monkshood blossom and contemplated the flower.  

“Groundskeeper,” he said.

A man in his late sixties with a permanent scowl etched into his jowly face appeared from around the corner of the ornamental trees.

“What is it?” the groundskeeper asked in a growl.

Ah, behold the glory of his one indulgence. The crown of his household.

An unkind question regarding his groundskeeper’s daughter crawled up his throat and nested behind his teeth. But if he loosed his tongue, the red wine would turn white in a spiteful miracle.

“I have a list for you to take to the grocery,” he said instead. He passed the slip of note paper to his groundskeeper, smiling to himself as the other man took it so very gingerly, careful not to touch his gloved fingertips. “If you can have it here Monday morning, that will be fine.”

The groundskeeper frowned, not that the expression made any particularly noticeable difference to his face.

“Is that it?” the man growled.

“No. See what you can learn about inexpensive landline deals," he replied.  "I am considering getting the rotary phone reconnected."

"Hm.  Anything else?"

"Mm," Herod replied, petting one of his experiments. Of course he bred for color and scent and size and shape, but he also liked to see what could be done to create new flowers entirely.

The nightshade rose he now fondled looked rather sad and tired.

“There is bonemeal in the tub on the porch,” he said to the groundskeeper. “Please put that and some of the compost down for this plant, and wear the heaviest gloves you have.”

“Hm.”

“And I think that will be all, thank you,” he said, turning from his hobby garden and clicking his tongue for Turtle. The dog came bounding towards him along the walk path. “After that’s done, you may leave if you like.”

The groundskeeper grunted.

Herod walked five paces away before pausing and turning. “Ah! But I’m forgetting. There is one other thing.”

The groundskeeper, halfway to pulling on a glove, scowled at him.

“If you ever spy on my door and watch my guests again,” Herod said, “I’m afraid there will have to be...consequences.”

“I’ve never seen someone without a police uniform come in and out of that house in one piece,” the man dared. “Can I be blamed if it caught my eye?”

“I value my privacy, and the privacy of my guests, Groundskeeper,” Herod snapped. “I value it very, very highly. Consider yourself warned.”

The groundskeeper harrumphed.

Herod mounted the steps and reentered the pleasant gloom of his house. He walked into the music room and selected an album, before bringing it into the kitchen and the phonograph he kept on the sideboard. He turned on the machine and set the pin.

Donna Summer’s voice floated around the room and he smiled, fetching an apron off the hook and tying it around his waist. He removed his gloves and his rings, tucking them in his pocket and stretching his ruined fingers before washing them in the icy blast of the sink. He poured himself a glass of barely-passable whiskey and took the small leg out of the refrigerator, setting the dish containing the skinned limb on the counter and fetching the salt, pepper, and garlic.

Turtle looked up at him from his dish with plaintive bug-eyes, too well-trained to whine.

“Ah,” Herod said. “That’s right. I made you a promise, didn’t I?”

He returned to the refrigerator and took out the little Tupperware tub full of a spongey gray paste.

“We should let it get to room temperature, you know,” he said in response to the wagging tail. “It’s still very cold. Air-conditioner of the body, you know. Aristotle’s refrigerator.”

The tail wagged at the more insistently, the dog's whole rear end wiggling excitedly, and Herod smiled to himself, coming over.

“All right,” he said tenderly, plopping the contents of the tub in the dog’s bowl. “But I’m not to blame if you get brain-freeze.”

The dog eagerly slurped down his treat.

"And don't let me forget," Herod added, rising to return to the leg.  "I must have Ms. Whispers and her niece for tea."


	3. Kitchen

Almost ten years ago, Jemina Whispers came home at five o’clock in the afternoon. She checked the mailbox, smiled at the flowers in the border garden, and unlocked the front door. She toed off her shoes and looked around for her ward.

“Lorna? Are you home, sweetheart?” she called. She walked into the kitchen and looked about for a note or perhaps some sign that the child had gone to play with her friends in the street. Nothing, and her play shoes were still by the back door.

“Lorna? Do you hear me? Are you listening to your audio book?” Ms. Whispers called up the steps. She mounted the flight and took a turn about the second floor. Lorna’s empty room made her heart begin to pound.

“Lorna? Lorna? Are you here?” she boomed, eyes widening as she searched her room, lifting the bed skirt and looking in the closet. “Lorna! This isn’t like you. This game isn’t funny! Don’t be wicked, Lorna, where are you?”

But the upstairs was empty. She hurried downstairs once more, trying to remember if the front door had been locked the way she taught Lorna to keep it in the afternoons. The back door was bolted securely and the windows were all locked up. It was winter, they had no reason to keep them open.

She stuck her head outside, but there were no children in the streets, no neighbors passing by. Lorna wouldn’t go out without her shoes, and her coat was in the closet.

“Lorna!” Ms. Whispers yelled aloud, beginning to panic. “Lorna!”

She hurried back into the house and seized the wireless phone by the wall. The neighborhood policeman’s card was tacked up on the corkboard nearby and she peered at it as she entered the number with shaking fingers.

As she was about to press call, she looked up and noticed that the basement door was ajar.

She always kept that door locked.

Ms. Whispers stared at it for a moment, before putting the phone in the deep pocket of her cardigan. The baseball bat was all the way upstairs, but this was a desperate time. If something untoward was happening, she’d have to use her hands.

She opened the basement door wider, trying to be quiet. There was no hope while she moved on the steps, but there was no reason to completely spoil the element of surprise before she could.

She tilted her head and listened.

She heard a child sobbing.

Her jaw clenched. No one. Hurt. Her Lorna.

She threw on the lights and charged down the stairs into the basement with an enormous bellow. “GET AWAY FROM HER--”

At the bottom of the steps, she stopped and looked around. Lorna was tucked away to the side, facing a corner.

Crying.

“Lorna!” Ms. Whispers cried, hurrying over to the little girl. “You had me worried sick!”

“Auntie?” Lorna sniffled, her grubby hands rubbing at her eyes.

“Oh, my Lorna, what’s wrong?” Ms. Whispers asked, turning the child’s head to face her. “What--why is your mouth all bloody?  What happened?”

Red fluid trickled down the girl’s chin, and her hands were covered in it, too. Ms. Whispers pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket and began cleaning her niece’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” Lorna whimpered. “B-B-But she wouldn’t...she w-w-w-wouldn’t let me…”

“Who wouldn’t let you, my Lorna?” Ms. Whispers asked, petting the child’s hair and wiping her mouth. The blood smelled fresh. “Where does it hurt?”

Lorna burst into tears and threw herself at her aunt, sobbing into her matronly bosom. “Laura! She wouldn’t l-l-let me just eat squirrels anymore, she said it had to be something b-b-bigger!”

Laura? Oh, the naughty imaginary friend, yes. Lorna had had some problems with her, claiming Laura told her to do things. It was all nonsense, of course. But… “Squirrels, Lorna? You mustn’t eat those nasty things. How did you even--”

“I wish I could!” Lorna wailed. “But now...now she says I must…” She broke into sobs again.

“Must do what, dearest?” Ms. Whispers asked, petting the long dark hair.

Lorna picked up her arm and shakily pointed to the darkest corner of the basement.

Ms. Whisper’s blood ran cold and she felt herself blanch.

“She says if I am to feed her,” Lorna cried, “I must eat something bigger.”

The torn thing in the corner was most definitely not a squirrel.

***

Now, Lorna picked herself up from the flower rows, examining her afternoon’s work. The marigolds would come in so handsome, and the poppies were lovely under the late spring sunshine. Auntie Whispers would be so pleased to see them turning up their happy little faces this morning.

Lorna pulled off her gardening gloves and plopped them in her tool bucket, dusting off the knees of her trousers and heading towards the mailbox. Under the shade of one of the trees, she tipped her wide-brimmed sunhat back so the ribbon stretched tight across her throat. She popped open the mailbox.

Inside were a few bills, credit card offers, a notice from the Motor Vehicle Association, a catalogue of modern furniture they couldn’t and didn’t wish to purchase, and a small white note.

She tucked the proper mail under her arm and looked at the note with a frown. There was no stamp or certification from the post office. The penmanship was good, “Ms. Jemina Whispers and Ward, Hawthorne Street,” but no exact house number or return address. Strangest of all, the back of the note was sealed with wax.

Lorna ran a thumb across it. Fatty, white wax, the kind that dinner candles were made out of, and sealed with a stamp that had a stylized B on it. It was a strange affectation: the wax certainly wasn’t meant for his purpose, however well it worked in the pinch. She glanced up and down the street before lifting the note to her nose and inhaling sharply.

Wax from a tealight, faintly perfumed, but that was just what unscented candles smelled like. Residue of fire. Cheap ink. Cheap paper. Well done, certainly done by someone who knew what they were doing, but flimsy in its execution. It was the kind of thing someone with rich tastes and shallow pockets sent, wanting to create a certain impression of themselves but unable to make it substantial. Play-acting. A theatrical temperament.

Lorna smiled to herself. Vanity. Masculine vanity. A very faint smell of cologne on the paper--she’d guess that it was just dabbed on the inside of the wrists and carried over, warmed by blood, onto the paper as the hand wrote. Not without fragrance then, but of course there was something in the restraint that kept him from scenting the letter itself. Merely a case of fragrance being too precious a luxury to waste? Not if the rest of the thing was so carefully done.  Still more to substantiate the probability of competence and embarrassed means. Dramatic sensibilities, yes, but also taste.

Vanity. Poverty. Resentment.

Lorna closed her eyes and took another long sniff. She grinned and licked her lips. This could be very tasty.

She tucked the note into the bundle of mail and looked up just to see one of the other older girls in the neighborhood kick off on her skateboard. The redhead snapped her gum and gave Lorna a queer look as she passed, and Lorna flushed scarlet and tried to comb her hair back behind her ear with her fingers.

She watched through her eyelashes as the girl rolled away, racerback tank top straps exposing the wings tattooed on her shoulder blades, skater skirt rippling around her tight, tanned thighs.

Lorna heaved a sigh. Great. Now she was going to be the creepy mail-sniffing girl.

She dashed back into the house and dumped all the mail on the kitchen table. The note stared up at her and she seized it and broke the seal. It was addressed to Auntie Whispers’ ward, after all, so she had every right to open it.

There was no envelope, just the single piece of paper folded and sealed, with a greasy dot where the wax had bled through.

“Dear Ms. Whispers and Ward,” she mumbled, “Allow me to extend my condolences on the recent upset your family has experienced. You are in my thoughts. If you would be amenable, I would be pleased to host you for tea at your earliest convenience. R.S.V.P. with date and time to No. 6 Edel Avenue, via the mailbox. Yours cordially, Herod Bethlehem.”

Hm. Hm, hm, hm.

She walked over to the dry erase calendar by the telephone and scribbled out ‘Tea @ 6 Edel’ for the Thursday two weeks from now.

That should give her enough time to work her way through the leftovers, before she needed to get something fresh.

***

It had taken some doing--Widow Mathers had been of the opinion that one simply did not turn down one of her half-day’s notice dinner parties, and he was the one tasked with the unfortunate duty of demonstrating to her that sometimes people made and stuck to their plans without taking into consideration her then-undreamt whims--but at last he managed to reappear on Beast’s doorstep at six. He quickly rings the doorbell and hides both hands behind his back.

Beast answered the door in a different mask. This one was a man’s Colombina style, not that he’d done enough research in the week to know the difference, and some sort of long fabric drape covered him from the nose ridge to the middle of his chest. Everything he was wearing was black, except the gold of the mask, gleaming in the late afternoon light.

“Ah, Enoch,” Beast said. “Excellent. Welcome.”

“I hope I’m not too early?” he said.

“Not at all. Please, come in.”

He stepped over the threshold and entered the dim, strangely cool foyer. Everything was as he remembered, except the delicious fragrance in the air and the faint noise of classical music somewhere in the house.

“Mm, what is that smell?”

“Supper. Please, come into the kitchen.” Beast led him into a handsome room with a gas range and a spotless refrigerator, totally barren of decoration. The dark cabinets were offset by the gleaming marble countertop and kitchen island, and beneath the cupboards were a few bands of magnets mounted on the wall, gleaming with a large collection of chef’s knives. “You eat organs, don’t you? I made a pâté.”

“Delicious. But you must have a strong stomach, if you can bear to make it yourself.”

Beast made a little whitter of a noise. Another of those strange little not-really-laughs? “Perhaps I need to bring you by for when I make sausage.”

“Adventurous.”

“That’s what they say,” Beast murmured, waving a hand at the plate with the little square of fine-ground liver on it. “Please, help yourself.”

“Just a moment,” Enoch said, tightening his grip on his offerings. “Left hand or right hand?”

Beast looked at him over his shoulder and Enoch got the impression that his old friend was imagining him, well, not naked, exactly, but...skinless. Like an anatomical diagram. Beast rolled those almost colorless eyes over him like he was trying to see inside him and eliminate the need to guess.

Enoch’s smile widened. He could get used to keeping Beast guessing.

“Hm,” Beast said, turning to face him and wedging a hip against the island counter. “Right.”

“For your delectation,” Enoch said, producing a tall bag.

Beast took the bag with both hands and pulled a pair of bottles out of it. He ran his gloved fingers across the label of one.

“Saint-Chinian! You’re too kind. Southern France, yes?”

“You know more than me. My assistant told me this is a good dinner wine. I’m an infant in these matters.”

“This is a treat, thank you,” Beast said. He placed the wine bottle very carefully on the table beside its twin and turned to seek out a corkscrew. “Baudelaire would approve. Truly ‘un chant plein de lumière et de fraternité.’”

“‘I feel a boundless joy when I flow down the throat of a man’?” Enoch inquired.

“Dirty,” Beast admonished with a theatrical little gasp. He began to pierce the cork with the waiter’s friend. “‘And his hot chest is a sweet tomb, which I like much better than my cold cellar.’ But what do you have in your left hand?”

“Here, trade,” Enoch said. He held out his right hand for the wine bottle and offered a bamboo steamer basket with his left.

Beast hesitated for an instant before giving him the bottle and taking the basket. He lifted off the lid with some care and seemed, for just a moment, honestly bewildered.

“I’m not sure if you had any dessert plans, but if you do this makes a very good breakfast and more importantly a good host gift. Miss Lulily, the dog trainer in town, I’m sure I’ve mentioned her, older woman, had that run-off fiancé about thirty years back?” Enoch explained. Stop. Stop now.

Beast contemplated the pie for a moment, before putting his head to one side and watching Enoch. His mouth kept going, despite the oppressive horror engulfing his brain and limbic system. His hands kept futzing with the wine bottle.

“Afghan hounds? Yes? Sold one to a duchess, I believe, and that made her fortune and that’s why she owns a little orchard although she’s not a farmer herself? I’m sure I’ve mentioned her. Well, she had an extra crop of apples out of her backyard and happened to make more pie than she knew what to do with. Initially she made it for Parson Bleak, with whom--now, this is very top-secret stuff which ought not to be whispered to foreign ears, but I am trusting you, Beast--”

He went on to describe in some detail the matter of Miss Lulily’s infatuation with Parson Bleak, and the man’s reciprocal hopeless and apparently unrequited passion for the middle-aged maiden, and the somewhat awkward scene that had occurred when Miss Lulily, interrupting the mayor and rector having tea and suddenly caught bringing the excellent vicar a present, hastily passed it off to Enoch so as not to seem preferential to indiscreet eyes.  It was the sort of thing that amused Pottsfielders of an afternoon, if they were gossipy--and everyone in a small town was.

Beast watched him as he talked.  It was agonizing.

“And that was how I came by it,” he concluded, working the cork out of the wine bottle and just relieved to be at the end of the story. “So.  You could say it’s been baked with love, even if it isn’t quite love of either you or I.”

Beast held him with those colorless eyes for some time after he finished the story, obviously waiting in case there was any more.  It couldn’t have been more than five seconds of silence, but under the weight of that gaze, it was almost impossible not to feel nervous.

Enoch was a mayor. He talked to people and about people for a living. The last time he’d felt this overwhelming urge to fidget, it had been immediately after a particularly bad voice-crack.

Beast finally rolled his gaze away from him and looked at the pie. Both gloved hands slipped under the fabric beneath his mask and held it slightly out and away from his face. Beast curved his spine and put his face down near the pie, and Enoch heard him slowly, deeply inhale.

Beast stood back up. “It’s fresh,” he sighed, releasing the breath he’d just taken in. “Delicious.”

Enoch swallowed hard enough to make his throat click. He was going to be remembering the sound of that breathy voice for some time.

The lever of the waiter’s friend caught and the cork came out with a little pop. How pleasantly symbolic, that.

“Glasses,” Beast said, moving away to a china cabinet on the far side of the kitchen. He retrieved two cut-glass goblets and brought them to the island. “Thank you very much for the pie. It’s very thoughtful of you. I haven’t had something made by other hands in a very long time. We must have it for dessert.”

Enoch grinned and poured out a sip for Beast to try. “Well, that pie has a scandal behind it, so I figured nothing went better with wine than dessert and gossip.”

“You will have no argument from me.  You are a born story-teller, I see,” Beast said, as the wine glass disappeared beneath his veil. “Mm. Very nice. Your taste has improved.”

“Oh, are you going to embarrass me, now?”

“I still remember you running around drinking champagne cocktails,” Beast teased, “how’s that for a misspent youth?”

“Shame unending upon my house,” Enoch said, pouring them both a glass. “Where's that pup of yours?”

“Out back. Shall I let him in?”

“If you like.”

Turtle came warily at his master’s heels, slinking into the room and casting distrustful glances at Enoch. Enoch crouched down and offered a hand to be sniffed. Turtle sniffed him doubtfully but after a few moments of gentle murmuring, nudged his head against Enoch’s hand.

Enoch grinned and petted the dog slowly, scratching him behind the ears. Up close the poor thing was even uglier, but it seemed sweet.

“Please do not spoil him,” Beast said from somewhere near the stove. “He gets enough of that from me.”

“Nonsense. I bet you run a tight ship.”

“Come by of an evening and see which of us has possession of the sofa: the owner of the house, or his pet.”

Enoch laughed and stood up, smiling to see the dog’s tail waving behind him. “Fair enough. No pâté for you, Turtle.”

Beast hummed. “Don’t worry. He’ll get his.”

***

Enoch sat back in his seat with an indulgent sigh. “Incredible.”

The dining room was very handsome.  The dark wood table was dressed with a pleasing, delicate china, and the silverware looked very antique.  The cups were glass but the napkins were cloth, and in the candlelight Beast's mask gleamed.

Beast darted a look up at him from across the dining table. “My blushes.”

“I mean it. Absolutely--” Enoch kissed his fingertips. “Magnifique.”

“The red wine is getting to you, Mr. Barnes,” Beast replied in a low tone. He sounded like he was smiling. Enoch wished he could see some kind of facial expression out of the man--no amount of easy, open body language could quite reproduce a single smirk. “You had better be good to drive.”

“Drunk? It takes more than half a bottle for me, thank you,” Enoch replied, patting his belly. “Mm. The mushrooms were particularly good. White button?”

“Cooked in butter, yes,” Beast said. The man sat back a little himself and crossed one leg over the other. “A little extra indulgence.”

“I’m going to be on salad and crudites for days thanks to you.” Enoch sipped at his wine. “What was the meat you used? It was never beef.”

“Lamb, actually. I managed to stumble upon a deal I couldn’t resist and thought I could use it well.”

“Really? Lamb. I’m surprised. I might’ve thought it was pork, from the taste.”

Beast picked up his glass and hid it beneath his veil for a moment. “Have you ever had schweinhaxe?”

“Pardon?”

“Pig knuckle. It’s a part of the hog that has a texture I find remarkably similar to tender lamb.”

“Do you mean to tell me you fed me a pig’s foot?” Enoch asked with a canted smile.

“Oh, never,” Beast demurred. “I assure you, that’s the sort of thing one should be warned about. I would never feed you something so unusual without you knowing.”

Enoch had a sip of wine. “Well, now, I’m pretty adventurous myself. Perhaps I’ll surprise you, with what I’m willing to eat.”

“Do you really think you will?” Beast purred. “How interesting.”

“I’ve never been accused of being delicate or picky. And I don’t plan to start now.”

“And here I was certain that you are positively tender,” Beast replied. “In any event, I believe that anything slow-cooked for so many hours together might taste like almost anything, when you get to the end. In this case it tasted like lamb and red wine, and that’s not too bad a thing, I think.”

“Not at all. I want your recipe.”

“Oh, let me keep some secrets, Enoch...”

“Or possibly I want just you, in my kitchen. Ever think of being a private chef?”

“The hat looks absurd on me,” Beast drawled. He rose from his seat and collected his plate. “Here, let me move some things to make room for that pie--”

“Let me,” Enoch said, taking the plate from Beast’s hands. “I’ve been a bump on a log tonight. My mother would be shocked at my manners.”

Enoch placed the dishes in the sink and ran a little water into them while Beast dithered with dessert plates and more of that unbelievably bad coffee.

Enoch liked to eat. He always had, and it showed. He had a taste for the finer things, and Beast’s cooking definitely fell into that category. But he grew up on a farm, in a house that had no room for squeamishness. He was far away from that kind of necessity now, but he’s still had a bite of every part of a steer but the eyeballs, and the same goes for lamb, and pork, and rabbit, and venison, and any manner of fowl and seafood.

He glanced at black-clad, graceful Beast out of the corner of his eye and smiled to himself, curious.

That certainly wasn’t lamb.

“How about a walk, first?” Enoch asked. “I could stand to digest a bit.”

***

Beast dipped into the powder room off of the foyer briefly and reemerged in a wide-brimmed hat tilted low over his eyes and a pair of sunglasses. He had a scarf wrapped from his ears, over his head, across the back of his neck, and over his nose, mouth, chin, and throat. His gloves were unchanged. He shrugged into a black linen coat that Enoch suspected was more for fashion than anything else and clicked his tongue, the sound slightly muffled by his wrap.

Turtle came trotting up, rear wiggling.

“All right,” Beast said to the animal, “here we go.”

“No leash?” Enoch asked, a little surprised.

“Oh, no. We’re far beyond the need for that, aren’t we?” Beast asked. He put a hand on the dog’s head for an instant before opening the door and stepping out into an evening that was just beginning to turn purple around the edges.

Beast locked the door behind them and they were only just down the steps when an elderly man in a cap and overalls appeared between two of the small ornamental trees that lined the brick walk. Enoch paused.

“Ah, Groundskeeper,” Beast said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket. He passed it to the elderly man who took it with great reluctance and a heavy scowl. “I was wondering if I would bump into you. There’s a note inside. Be so good to bring me the items I list, thank you. If the hydrangeas are behaving, you are dismissed for the weekend.”

“Hmm,” the man replied.

“Ah, manners, excuse me. Enoch, this is my groundskeeper,” Beast said, presumably glancing at Enoch. He waved a hand at the elderly man. “Groundskeeper, Mr. Enoch Barnes, mayor of Pottsfield.”

“Pleasure,” Enoch said, offering a hand.

The groundskeeper’s eyebrows lowered and drew together. “Hmph!” He took Enoch’s hand for an instant before releasing it.

“Goodbye, Groundskeeper,” Beast said in no uncertain tone. Turtle began to quietly growl, but Beast clicked his tongue again. The dog fell silent.

The elderly man turned towards what Enoch assumed were the hydrangeas in question and Beast assumed a fairly quick pace along the bricks.

They turned left out of the house and walked along the thick hedges that hid Beast’s front yard from the view of the sidewalk, Turtle trotting happily along.

“I apologize for him,” Beast said in a confidential tone. “He’s...not what you might call a model employee.”

“What is his name?” Enoch asked.

Beast’s head turned to look at him. “I’ve no idea,” he replied, as if it was a very shocking and bizarre thing, to be expected to know the name of one’s employee.

Enoch found a grin tugging at his lips. “But what do you write on his checks?”

“I pay him in cash,” Beast said, “if you must know.”

“How long has he been working for you?”

“Some fifteen years, I suppose.”

“And you don’t know his name?”

“I can hardly imagine what my knowing his name would do to make him a better employee,” Beast scoffed, as they turned from the one lane to a two-lane street and began to walk along a handsome green square.

“Morale, for one.”

“Morale is for the incompetent,” Beast sneered. “All I know is that he has a missing daughter and when he’s irritated with me, which is often, he likes to mix up my grocery list items.”

“Well, that’s not right of him.”

“That’s what I think. Hm. Perhaps I should have him sued for it. Claim an allergy or some kind of terrible intolerance to, oh…?”

“Something you’ve never had him buy before. Perhaps one of those sodas made with artificial sweetener? The toxic kinds.”

Beast cut him another look. “What on earth…?”

Enoch laughed softly. “Oh, nevermind.”

They walked in relative silence around the neighborhood, Beast herding him, all sidling body language and wide left turns. Turtle darted away and came back, and if Enoch didn’t know better he would surely think the animal was wild, and rabid. But he returned to Beast’s side every time, hovering patiently before some flick of Beast’s wrist or murmured instruction set him free again.

Turtle looked like the kind of dog that would happily maul a child. Probably would, if Beast gave him permission. He’d probably maul Enoch, if Beast gave him permission.

Mmph. That’s a thought to save for later, when he’s a little more alone.

They turned one more corner, climbed one more hill, and Beast led them through a little winding alley, tight enough that Enoch’s hands, hanging at his sides, sometimes brushed the bricks, before they came to a two-lane road and Beast paused, turning to look at Enoch.

He recognized the graveyard before them. He’d seen the pictures, after all.

Oh God. It wasn’t considered discreet, to cross one’s legs while standing, was it?

“Come along,” Beast murmured, beckoning Enoch with a finger.

He followed more eagerly than the dog.

They jaywalked across the empty street and up the little mound to the first stones. There was a great big oak tree in the middle of the graveyard, its huge roots probably chewing on corpses beneath their very feet. Turtle tore off after something, a squirrel, likely as not, and left them to their own devices.

“Let me see, let me see,” Beast murmured to himself. “They have the shrine to the innocents there, but I can’t imagine that wouldn’t have been mentioned in your newspaper. I seem to recall the police tape being somewhere in the middle, where the old graves are. Do you happen to recall the name on the tombstone?”

Enoch warred mightily within himself. Yes, he remembered the grave name, but not from the newspaper. He did not necessarily want to reveal the extent of his research, not if Beast should happen to pick up a newspaper any time soon and look for information that would not be there.

“I’m not sure,” Enoch allowed. “I don’t believe there was a name. I don’t believe they wanted to let too many details to get out. Perhaps we ought to look around and see what we can find.”

Beast nodded his head and they paced out through the rows.

The older stones were very interesting, or they would’ve been if Enoch had a mind entranced by history. He watched as Beast crouched beside one stone from the 1700s and touched his gloved fingertips into the shallow groove of the letters. Little patches of lichen stuck out here and there, yellow and green, and Enoch thought he looked very at home, very picturesque, tucked behind the shabby wrought iron gates.

Enoch paced about, head swinging to and fro in the rows as he darted glances at the spot he knew to be right. If asked, he’d say he found it from the disturbed dirt, of which there was plenty.

At last, he approached.

“I think this is it,” he said.

Oh, here it was. Here a beautiful sculpture had kneeled in profaned reverence to death. Here the wrists had been bound to the little filigree on the headstone. Here the knees had spread, shucked of meat, offering what little was left.

“Ah,” Beast said nearby, “so it is. Well-spotted.”

“Sobering.”

“It is,” Beast murmured, coming over. “How was he arranged?”

“I don’t quite remember,” Enoch replied. “On his knees?”

Beast glanced back towards the street. “You know, I don’t see anybody coming by. And all the police-tape is down.”

Enoch glanced at him, heart in his throat. “What are you getting at?”

Beast shrugged his shoulders a little. “Oh, nothing. Just a morbid little idea.”

Enoch struggled for as much nonchalant charm as a man could have while trying to fight off an erection with sheer willpower. “Go on. You know I love a morbid little idea.”

“It’s such a tragedy, such an atrocity,” Beast mused aloud. “I wonder if it mightn’t be a very unique experience, to be in such a charged place, in just the same position. Disrespectful, of course. But that does make it rather fun.” He waved a hand. “Just a silly idea. Never mind me.”

“Hm,” Enoch said. There wasn’t enough willpower in the world.

“Only you were so interested,” Beast added. He glanced down at the stone and touched a little patch of brown--oh, God in heaven, yes, if that was the young man’s blood--“If you wanted to get a little thrill, I should be happy to keep watch.”

If he kneeled here, where he might be able to still smell the young man’s blood on the stone, with Beast hovering over him like the spectre of death and the evening deepening to night, he was going to come in his trousers.

“Soon, perhaps,” Enoch replied. All he could do was pray that Beast didn’t happen to glance between his belt and knees. “This is a charming place and I should be happy to come back to it someday. But not just now. It seems a little...untoward.”

“Quite right,” Beast agreed. “Positively ghoulish.”

His finger traced across that brown spot, rubbing across it over and over and over again. Enoch gnawed on the inside of his mouth.

“Now then!” Beast said. “Where on earth did that mutt of mine go?” He turned away to whistle for the dog, and Turtle came bounding from behind the tree. Beast advanced a few paces to intercept him.

Out of sight, Enoch bent down and swiped his tongue across the brown patch, shuddering. More stone and dirt than anything else, but beneath it, a faint iron tang. He held back a groan and felt himself pulse so hard he leaked, just a tiny bit, behind his zipper.

Thank God for that hideous coffee waiting for them back at Beast’s. He’d need something to cool him down.


	4. Basement

He didn’t want to be out here.

He never did. It felt gaudy and melodramatic, to do this sort of thing when he had a perfectly good means of taking out his trash by himself. If only others could learn to be so thoughtful when it came to their waste management…!

He wasn’t even responsible for that frankly ridiculous display in the graveyard. It had a clever spark, he would not deny it, and it was a work of clear technical brilliance, but at the end of the day the imagery was too jumbled.

What was the artist trying to say? Occult behavior had to have a central theme, but this was the work of someone with too many ideas and not enough self-control. Was the body a representation of the Horned God? A penitent Ganymede? A slender Oedipus who was a little too handy with those gouging fingers?

And the details! Too much blood. Too much gore. A sign of a dirty mind, a mind which didn’t understand what death and suffering really were. There was no true fear in it. It just devolved into nonsense, too many details mashed together to try and create a single ultimate fright, one which would inevitably fail to be realized.

He resented the suspicion that he would be involved. His work was very different, not that anyone knew that, but on a very basic level he was profoundly irritated that anyone would finger him for this kind of silliness. Well and good to call this an artistic display, and well and good to positively identify him as an artistic sort of person. But what on earth was the point of being artistically-minded if one didn’t demonstrate a bit of taste and restraint?

Amateurish. Deft execution, mangled conception. The work of an engineer, not an artist.

But there was no explaining that to anyone, of course. So here he found himself, acting a fool in the middle of the night. The lengths a man had to go to, the humiliations that had to be suffered, to distance himself from these kinds of ridiculous entanglements!

His wasn’t a particularly elegant or diabolical scheme, but it was certain to be effective, and that had an elegance all its own. The only trick was to make it all look as organic as possible, to make it all seem too suspicious to be believed, so that when something truly wrong popped up, it would be dismissed.

He took out the bones, picked scrupulously clean, carefully washed, and painstakingly sewn back together. He arranged the piece slowly in the dark, wanting to get this just right. At last, he stood back, considering with a tilted head how it hung from the branches of the tree.

The spinal cord had taken a little while to get right, and so had the ribs, and heavens but getting all the glass in place was its own little torment, but he supposed he was pleased with the effect now. It was certainly as good at it was going to get.

He carefully hung the collared burner and oil front from the seventh rib. He could only hope this was going to burn as it should, but it was out of his hands. Performance art was so tricky.

He struck a match and lit the wick. A beautiful glow illuminated the inside of the little body, the glass between the ribs shielding the fragile little flame from any untimely night breeze.

Outside the glow, he nodded to himself and picked up all his materials, ready to sack them away somewhere safe.

The first step was executed well. Now, on with the dance.

***

Over many years of service in the community, Enoch had come to expect that he would be in his office of a Tuesday afternoon much more often than not. All the world was quietly occupied on a Tuesday afternoon, and without any council meetings to preside over or events to attend, it was the perfect time to get a little real work done.

He was hip-deep in budget adjustments and cultural affairs proposals--it was looking like the annual Bagpipe Festival was back on track, and that was just lovely! He’d have to slip a warning to the apothecary in the pharmacy that there would be a run on ibuprofen--when his phone jangled.

“Yes, Miss Clara?” he murmured, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear and following the lines of numbers down the paper in front of him, looking for some more fat to carve away.

“There’s a Mr. Bethlehem phoning for you, Enoch,” Miss Clara said. She was too professional to sound interested or surprised by the unfamiliar name, but Enoch’s concentration broke like a china plate and though ever-so alone in his office he nevertheless sat up straight.

“Thank you, Miss Clara, I’ll take the call,” he said, clearing his throat and deliberately relaxing back into his seat, abandoning pen and reading glasses on his desk.

There was a click, and then...

“Mayor Barnes,” said the purr on the line. “I’m so glad I caught you during your office hours.”

“Beast,” he replied, forcing lightness into his voice. “What a surprise. I would’ve sworn you said you didn’t have a phone.”

“I had a rotary dial in the basement. What I didn’t have was a connection. I’ve taken your concern about safety to heart and I’ve had the line reestablished.” Beast paused. “But I’m afraid this isn’t a purely social call.”

“Oh? I suppose it’s business, then? I’m afraid I’m a little out of your jurisdiction, my friend.”

“Are you alone, Enoch?” Beast asked, his voice slung low. Enoch wanted to be able to focus on memorizing that quiet question, but even though he’d never really imagined that Beast would call for the sake of conversation, he couldn’t help but frown a bit at the seriousness of Beast’s tone. “I really think it’s wise for you to be alone, and sitting down, before I go on.”

“That’s exactly how you’ve found me,” Enoch replied, rising from his seat to close his office door. He quietly threw the lock. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m afraid something rather ghastly has happened. You don’t happen to get the city newspaper, do you? I do not, but I imagine this would probably be on the police blotter.”

Enoch sat in his chair and shuffled his papers around, looking for the newspaper. He thought he had it just here-- “I’m going to need you to start using some pretty specific nouns and verbs, Beast. What’s going on?”

“Another body has been found very nearby, just Saturday,” Beast replied. “An appalling display made from the bones of a child. They think he was left there late Friday night. Indeed, we might have been having dinner while the poor thing was meeting his end.”

Enoch wetted his lips and frowned, making an effort to maintain his composure and coolness. “I’m sorry to hear that. That’s grim indeed. But I’m sure you didn’t call me just to trade ghoulish gossip, did you?”

“I’m not that starved for company, no. I’m afraid that just yesterday I had a very unpleasant meeting with an officer of the law,” Beast replied. He sounded painstakingly nonchalant, the way only the anxious and frightened could sound.

“My God,” Enoch said. “They don’t think you were involved, surely?”

“I can hardly imagine they just popped by to make sure I’ve made a donation to the Widows and Children’s fund,” Beast replied. “Obviously, they’ve said nothing of their suspicions, but I don’t particularly expect they would. I believe they are looking at me for that horrific exhibition of the young man, too. Enoch, I must apologize, but--”

“Don’t apologize,” Enoch insisted, putting on his most soothing voice. His blood ran hot in his veins, lighting him up. Oh, only imagine if it were true, if that rapturous beauty had come from his dear, dear friend’s mind… “I want to help however I can. You have a lawyer, of course, don’t you? And I’m certainly willing to vouch as your alibi for the evening--I even have my schedule marked with your address, and my secretary and your groundskeeper can surely confirm that I was with you the entire evening.”

“Enoch, please.” Beast drew an audible breath over the phone. “I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m calling to warn you that you may have some visitors coming to ask you questions. Not about me, though I suppose it’s probable that I will come up. About you.”

“What? About me?”

“Yes,” Beast said. “I’m sorry, Enoch, I’m afraid I accidentally got you involved. We were both observed taking a turn very near where the bones were found. Why, Turtle ran around behind the very tree.”

Oh.

He swallowed so hard his throat clicked. Right there? They had been that close, quite possibly with the bones right there the whole time?

“I see,” he said.

“Of course, there can be no doubt of your lack of involvement,” Beast said. “As soon as they learn who you are, I’m sure all suspicion will be quickly dropped. But I’m afraid it might be inconvenient, and...well, you are a public figure, after all.”

“Yes, of course,” Enoch murmured. He cleared his throat and shook off his surprise. “Well, my alibi is certainly just as good, and I should be pleased to talk with any members of the law enforcement community that feel the need to approach me on the subject.”

“Naturally,” Beast replied. “I only thought that perhaps a phone call was in order. It would be...uncivil, to let you learn this from the papers.”

“I’m touched, Beast, I truly am.” Enoch leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything I can do for you? You’re in the same boat as me, after all.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” Beast asked. “I have a few things I think I should tell you."

He had a city council meeting at seven, but… “I could make a late dinner, if that would suffice?”

“Excellent. Ten o’clock?”

Oosh. The seven AM breakfast meeting catch-up with Miss Clara Deen was going to be rough, then, but…

“I’ll be there,” he said, scrawling out a note to look up this latest horror in Woodlawn. Maybe there would be pictures. “What can I bring?”

***

It wasn’t as sexy, and Enoch was the first to admit it.

No, while that beautiful young man had been a pagan orgy, the skeleton lantern had been a ghostly hand reaching in and squeezing around his heart. The smallness of the bones, the craftsmanship and care in the construction of the lamp, the tenderness of the light burning within were all hallmarks of a more romantic mind. This was no rough and hungry fuck, but a careful and somewhat self-conscious overture of a more spiritual, almost delicate, kind.  Not so much an overt, outright seduction as a love note.

It was beautiful. It was haunting, much more so than that supple sacrifice had been. After he was finished, he kept the image open, contemplating it as he drank a glass of wine, instead of immediately scrubbing his computer for all traces of the search. The young man had been an offering to Death, but this child was Death’s response to that wet and rippling display. The artist was so present in the young man, so alive, with a living idea of what death was.

The only thing present in the child was Death itself, meditating coolly on what it had killed.

Enoch touched himself slowly, drawing it out, building the pleasure and teasing himself like he would with a cherished lover. Call and response, and he, alive and awake, to witness a most exquisite conversation. They moved well together, demure Death with its virginal prey and its modestly bare bones, and gory, vicious Life In Death, playing her wild, maenadic game with her debased beau. Perhaps they two were beginning to find each other. Perhaps they would play together, rolling dice to see how they would create their next masterpiece.  

No, the skeleton lantern wasn’t as sexy.

It still made him come harder, imagining the careful hands of the artist on his cock.

***

Beast answered the door just at ten o’clock. The whole street was dark and Beast’s own lights were burning low, leaving shadows in every corner and heaped against every wall.

The curtains, however, were open. The kitchen shades had been drawn away and Beast had opened the window panes to let fresh air in. The night was warm and fragrant and the house took on a very different cast at this hour.

“I’m glad you came,” Beast said. “I hope you don’t mind something light, I’ve been a little too anxious to eat.”

Enoch reached out and put a hand on Beast’s shoulder. The man jumped as if electrocuted and Enoch squeezed gently, holding him together.

“I’m sorry for your distress,” he said, in his most caring and quietly supportive voice. “Please tell me if there’s anything at all that I can do.”

Beast cleared his throat. “Yes. I--yes. I hope you eat ratatouille?”

Enoch pulled the cork on a bottle of Bandol Rouge he’d been fortunate enough to bring along unprompted. Beast disappeared for a moment or two to change masks. He returned in the gold mask with the veil, dished the meal, and they sat down to dinner in the candlelit dining room.

“I want to say that I appreciate your patience and discretion,” Beast said, when they were both about halfway through their dinners. He’d drunk less than half his glass of wine and Enoch wanted him to have more, in the hopes that it might unwind those tense shoulders of his. “I think there are relatively few people who could resist the temptation of curiosity as long as you have.”

“Oh?” Enoch asked, practically purring over his most recent mouthful. The tomatoes burst so warm and red against the inside of his mouth, and the pasta over which the vegetables were served was most certainly handmade. Heavenly.

“Enoch,” Beast said in a warning tone. “Don’t tease me.”

He took a sip of his wine, refocusing his attention on the chef instead of the meal. “I assume you’re referring to the mask?”

“Among other things.” Beast held up a his left hand and slowly and deliberately folded down the little finger of his glove. It pressed completely flat.

Enoch tried not to raise his eyebrows. Beast sighed.

“I recognize that this might not be the most perfectly genteel dinner conversation, but…” Beast took a sip of his wine. “I am a leper.”

Enoch’s eyebrows shot up. There was no stopping them.

They were silent for some moments.

“A leper,” Enoch echoed. 

“Yes,” Beast said. His voice sounded irritated and he carefully drew off his left glove and held what was left of his hand up to the light.  Enoch's heart about stopped.

The little finger of the hand was gone, leaving nothing behind but a stump. Half of the ring finger was lost, too, and the other fingers were slightly curled and clenched. The hand was still as slender and delicate as the last time Enoch had seen it, and Enoch stifled a smile as he caught sight of a red paste jewel ornamenting the middle finger of Beast’s hand. The skin was mottled and uneven with healed scars and sores, green veins standing stark beneath the thin skin.

Enoch pressed his knees together. Beast dressed his table with a long white tablecloth and for that Enoch was profoundly grateful.

“Obviously I am no longer contagious,” Beast said, taking up his glass with his bare hand. The pad of his index finger ran around the rim of the glass and Enoch wondered how often he touched anything with his naked skin. “But the disease took any resources I might have had to repair the damage, and of course one does not hire a disfigured leper to perform before packed auditoriums.”

“I see,” Enoch said. “I had heard that you were ill, but I never learned the exact details.”

“I believe I generally managed to avoid any explicit admission of what was wrong,” Beast replied. He turned his head to contemplate the sight of his mangled appendage as it caressed the cut-glass goblet. “Isolde knew. She was instrumental in effecting a disappearance.”

Enoch frowned slightly and sat back. He glanced at the ratatouille and took another bite--handmade by a leper or not, it was still incredibly good. “Now, I’m sorry, but I’m a little ignorant when it comes to this kind of thing. How did you even catch it?  Isn't leprosy curable?”

“As you can plainly see!” Beast said, in a tone that was almost a chuckle. “But of course one must know what one had before one can treat it. I have no idea how I contracted it, or how long it lay dormant. It moved so slowly. Did I drink too much one night, or could I really not feel my hands? Feeling came and went, and sometimes I felt so exhausted that I could hardly stand--but I felt exhausted, not weak. Rashes appeared, strange and startling but not painful, precisely, and before I knew it…”

He shook his head. “It was a mystery. Finally it attacked my face and I couldn’t hide that something was horribly wrong. It took the doctors even longer to diagnose it, and treatment took another year to take me out of danger. In the meanwhile, there were complications and certain...amputations were necessary.”  He took a sip of his wine.

“My body was dying horrifically while I inhabited it,” Beast said quietly. “I was carrying around a corpse and I didn’t even notice when it started to rot.”

Enoch reached up and brushed his fingertips across his mouth. Beast sat across from him in morbid contemplation of his ruined fingers, running a gloved finger over the line of his left middle finger up to the wrist. He quickly waved a hand at the rest of his body.

“The rest is essentially the same. There is some nerve damage, here and there. No antibiotics could reverse that. My grip strength is essentially shot,” Beast went on. “I can handle well enough on my own, of course, but I could never do anything requiring a great deal of physical strength. I’ve lost too much muscle mass, between the disease and the complications and the subsequent...embarrassment.”

Enoch looked at that hand. So slender, so terribly fragile. He would be so delicate beneath those close-cut clothes, collarbones bulging out, arms and legs stripped of flesh, ribs prominent against his ruined skin, emaciated belly tucked back towards his spine, hips bones like curved marble piercing out from his waist…

Beautiful.

“I only mention all of this to you,” Beast said quietly, “because I wish to make very clear how physically impossible it is that I would be responsible for that tragic display in the graveyard.”

A laugh burst out of Enoch’s mouth. “Oh, my friend! My dear Beast, how can you imagine I would doubt it?” He shook his head. “No, I declare, if you say you have not done it, that is enough for me.”

Beast stayed rigid for a moment, before relaxing back in his seat, tension bleeding out of his body.

“That’s good to hear,” he said, on a shuddery exhalation. “There is a very potent prejudice in this neighborhood against the peculiar. There have been deaths before, and I have been...interviewed, shall we say, despite my infirmity making the whole matter absurd. It was clear that there was a general suspicion of my reclusion that did not balk at physical facts.” Beast looked towards the sitting room. “Not that I especially blame them, mind you. I treated and hung that deer skull myself. I don’t expect I look particularly open and affable.”

Enoch frowned. “Even so, we can’t have these policemen harassing innocent citizens.”

Beast waved his naked hand in a graceful sweep before hastily tucking it back towards his chest and pulling his glove onto it. Perhaps he wasn’t perfectly used to having his skin on display, however intentionally he’d bared it.

“Of course not, but what can be done except a peaceful endurance of their suspicions?” Beast asked. “They searched my house not five years ago. I can hardly imagine they’ll get the permit to search again, but if they do, they won’t find anything.”

“Do you have a lawyer employed?”

Beast hummed noncommittally and sipped his wine. Well. Miss Clara would be looking into some reputable firms nearby, first thing.

“Well, when they come to talk to me, I’ll simply tell them everything about the evening,” Enoch said. “From Saint-Chinian to dessert.”

Beast bowed his head. “I fear they may yet wonder about our dinner together tonight, but I trust this was also added to your schedule?”

“Naturally. Miss Clara would never stand to have an unscheduled meeting. It would be a blow to her professional pride.”

Beast swirled the wine in his glass and gave Enoch a kind of sidelong glance with smiling eyes. “She sounds utterly charming, my friend."

"She is a treasure."

"How sweet. Well, if you have such precautions in place I’m sure this will all come to nothing. But I appreciate you being so calm about the matter. It is a horrible thing, I know.”

Enoch bowed his head. “A man shouldn't be alone in straits like this. It's the least I can do, I assure you.”

“Well,” Beast said slowly. “Perhaps the least I can do is see that you’re well-fed during this ghastly little episode. Would you like to come to dinner again later in the week?”

Enoch grinned. “It’d be my pleasure.”

***

Enoch stumbled through his front door, threw the bolt, and hurried up the steps. He drew the curtains and pulled out his laptop, sitting in the dark with the glow burning out onto his face.

Hansen’s disease. It primarily affected the skin and the peripheral nerves outside the brain and spinal cord. It sometimes attacked the eyes and the thin inner lining of the nose. It could incubate for years and it was so rare these days that identifying the beginnings of contagion was almost impossible. Treatment could take from six months to several years, and often included the use of thalidomide, which suppressed the immune system and could cause life-threatening birth defects in infants.

Complications included blindness or glaucoma, disfiguration of the face, kidney failure, muscle weakness resulting in clawed hands, permanent damage to the inside of the nose, permanent nerve damage, and...oh, erectile dysfunction, dear me, let’s hope not.

To be alive in all of this agony, to be awake and aware, cold and dry and shuddering in pain! His dear friend, alone and shattered and so icily proud, like a plague god brooding in his quarantine fortress. Death In Life, half-lost and still haunting his own ruins, holding up a hand like a claw to living light and letting Enoch see...oh, if only he would let him _see_!

Gnawing on the inside of his mouth and keeping that twisted, tattered hand before his mind’s eye, Enoch hit the image search button.

Oh. Oh, yes, please.

The facial disfiguring was indeed terrible, sometimes even after surgery, and the things it did to the eyes, oh...but he wouldn’t have any of that kind of thing, no, those eyes were beautiful and alert and almost unsettlingly clear. Perhaps a little partial blindness? He’d have to watch to see if his friend tended to favor one side or the other.

Scars, sores, buboes, wounds--the digitless stumps--did this make him an analog kind of man?

He lay back in the dark and tucked his little and ring fingers into his palms and brushed across his skin with just the three fingers of his left hand. Slow, now, slow, like making love, like how that skeleton lantern made him feel. That mangled skin, untouched by sunlight for twenty years, so pale it was almost luminous. How it would run beneath his own skin, his hands and lips, as he kissed slender fingers so long and soft, ornamented with that huge false ruby, an adorably theatrical affectation. How its textures would surprise and enflame, the gnarled knot of a healed stump, the stark cliff of a scar making his tongue tingle as much from texture as flavor! All those delicate, serpentine gestures belying pain and wretchedness...to feel those gestures made against him, wrists rolling, hips swaying, arms bending, shoulders tilting, neck arching back to bare itself, as fragile and elegant as a bird’s…

Beautiful.

Simply, undeniably beautiful.

***

“Ah, Detectives,” Enoch said from the doorway of his office. The almost aggressively clean-cut men looked up at him from the waiting area just beyond Miss Clara Deen’s desk. “Welcome. Please, come in. Miss Clara, please hold my calls.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the smaller of the detectives, as they followed him into his office and he closed the door behind them. “We’re sorry to have to interrupt your day.”

“Not at all, gentlemen. Take a seat, please. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your names over the phone?”

“My name is Tode--this is is Frugg,” said the larger detectives.

“Before we get started, can I offer you a coffee? Tea?”

“Ah, no thank you. We won’t take up much of your time.”

“Nonsense, it’s a pleasure to be of service. Might I ask you what this about? I thought I saw something about a pile of human bones found out in Woodlawn?” he asked, settling himself down in his chair.

“Yes, sir. We’re just trying to get an idea of where everyone was the night before the discovery was made.  Can you describe your movements that night, sir?"

Enoch gave a short but meticulous outline of his movements that night, citing the meal he’d eaten with Beast and the chance meeting with the groundskeeper on the lawn, before describing the promenade around the graveyard and the subsequent return to the house for pie and more of that truly foul coffee. From the half-smothered smile on Frugg’s face, he guessed that the unfortunate detective had been treated to some of the very same during Beast’s interview.

“And I suppose I took my leave at about ten o’clock,” he concluded. “I fear that was a little bit late, but we had got to talking.”

“What did you talk about?” Tode asked.

“Music, mostly,” Enoch replied with a smile. “And a little bit about food. We’re both gourmets, it turns out, although some might say I am a little more of a gourmand.”

“Hm. And what did you say the meal was, Mayor Barnes?”

“A French stew made with lamb. Absolutely excellent.”

“We’re sure,” Frugg agreed. “Mayor Barnes, how long have you known Mr. Bethlehem?”

“Must be twenty, twenty five years.”

“And have you stayed in contact all that time?”

“No, actually. I came across his name recently and thought I’d look him up again. We used to be close but he disappeared years back.”

“I see. Where did you hear the name?”

He launched into a long and rather meandering story about Miss Elizabelle and their operatic interests. By the time he stopped to take a breath, the detectives looked ready to bolt.

“Right!” Tode jumped in, transparently glad to have a foothold in the conversation again. “And can you describe Mr. Bethlehem's state of mind on Friday night?”

It took everything he had not to describe it as ‘sanguine.’ “It can be a little tricky to get past the, ah…” He gestured to his face. “But I would say he was content. Very at ease and very host-like. We had a lovely evening, no awkwardness or reserve.”

“And last night?”

Enoch smiled. “Perfectly calm. We had a ratatouille and made it a night. Most of the conversation was about pandemics. Perhaps that’s a little eccentric for dinner conversation, but we are reading similar books.”

Frugg and Tode nodded. Frugg pulled out his card. “Thank you for your time, Mayor Barnes. If you think of anything, anything at all, that pertains to that evening, please give us a call.”

“Of course,” Enoch agreed easily. “Let me see you gentlemen out.”

He watched Frugg and Tode leave and turned to Miss Clara Deen, who looked at him with her eyebrows just barely raised.

“Sad business,” he explained. “I might have to be a character witness.”

Miss Clara nodded placidly. “I’ve got Mr. Pearson on the line.”

“Oh--I'd better take that. Thank you, Miss Clara. Do me a favor and keep Friday evening open for the next several months, if you can.”

Miss Clara cast him a look. “That’s kind of a tall order, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

***

The sun had been shining brighter than usual and all the world seemed gay, but perhaps that was just because bones had been found in the graveyard and took quite a bit of the heat off of them. It was wonderful, how things tended to work out.

Ms. Whispers paused at the beginning of the walk and emptied the mailbox. It was full of the usual combination of junk and bills, but there was also a funny little letter sealed with wax, of all things. She brought the bundle into the house and walked into the kitchen, setting it down on the island.

Lorna was doing the dishes. “Good afternoon, auntie.”

“Good afternoon, dearie. Look at this queer little letter we received,” Ms. Whispers said, waving the note in the air. “There’s no return address.”

“Mm,” Lorna hummed. Ms. Whipsers broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

“‘Dear Ms. Whispers and Miss Lorna,’” she murmured to herself. “‘I regret to have to postpone our Thursday tea for another two weeks. Please accept my sincerest apologies. Would a Sunday tea, at the end of the month, suit you? Yours,’ etc...Thursday?”

Ms. Whispers glanced at the whiteboard calendar in the kitchen. “6 Edel?” she asked. “I don’t remember receiving a letter like this before.”

"Oh, but we received one more than a week ago," Lorna said. She began soaping up a cup. “I’m sorry, auntie, I thought I mentioned it and put it on your end table.”

She’d snuck it into her aunt’s handbag, actually, the void from which no paper ever reemerged.

“No, I never saw it. Did you write back to this man, Lorna?” Ms. Whispers asked.

“Why, yes,” Lorna replied, glancing over her shoulder. “I was sure I mentioned it to you and you said we should accept Mr. Bethlehem’s invitation.”

Ms. Whispers gave her a little frown and held her in a steady, watchful stare. Lorna stopped scrubbing the cup.

“I’m sorry, auntie, I must have misunderstood you,” she said, bowing her head.

Ms. Whispers grunted softly and looked at the letter again. “Mr. Bethlehem? The name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?”

“I never have. He wrote to express his condolences on our discovery some weeks ago,” Lorna replied. “I don’t know anything more.”

Ms. Whispers set about searching for something on her phone and Lorna finished the dishes. As the young woman started chopping vegetables for their dinner, her guardian hummed thoughtfully.

“That’s right,” Ms. Whispers said. “The singer who fell ill.”

Lorna tried not to pause in her chores. “Ill?”

“Oh yes. He got sick right after you were born, my pet,” Ms. Whispers replied. “I think your Aunt Adelaide saw him once. She was very impressed, but I was never sure if I could trust her judgment on these things.”

Deft hands twisted the knife into a more comfortable position and the carrots under the girl's hands came apart in wafer-thin discs. “Do we know what he had?”

“Something blood-based,” Ms. Whispers replied. “And he must be over fifty, anyway, so I wish you would get those thoughts out of your head. He’s unsuitable for your needs, dear.”

Lorna frowned down at her carrots. Damn! “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, auntie.”

Ms. Whispers hmphed, turning the paper over. “Well. I’m sure I don’t want you to exhaust yourself with this visit, but...I suppose this isn’t such a bad thing, after all. It would be good to meet more of our neighbors, and it has been a long time since we were invited anywhere.”

Lorna tossed the carrots into the frying pan and tried not to look very disappointed. “Yes, mum. Shall we write him back and confirm for Sunday?”

“Oh, I think so,” Ms. Whispers nodded. “I’m going to change my clothes. Let me know when supper’s ready, won’t you?”

“Yes, mum,” Lorna agreed. She listened for her aunt to pass out of earshot and heaved a sigh.

Diseased! And gone fifty! Horrible. He had sounded so promising, so desperate and needy. He would’ve been easy pickings.

Lorna finished with the vegetables and wiped her hands on her apron before going over to the calendar and smearing their Thursday engagement away with a thumb. They’d just have to make do until then. Auntie Whispers would probably bring home a chicken, out of some well-intentioned idea that would nevertheless starve them.

Lorna wrote in the new date and tapped the marker against her lips.

Oh, well. The more she wondered about the mysterious epistolarian at the other side of the neighborhood, the more curious she felt. Perhaps there would be something worth the wait.

***

On Friday evening, Enoch swallowed a bite of his dinner with a smile. “This is delectable.”

“Ah, you are too kind. Thank you.”

“It’s never pork?”

“Goat. A randy little one, too, if I can credit my butcher’s word.”

“Divine. I hate to only observe it now, but did you happen to move the furniture around a bit?” Enoch asked.

Beast gave him a rather dirty look over the candles. “I did not. Some of the neighborhood children decided it would be a lark to tell the detectives that they dared a missing child to go into my house, and on this very specious testimony a warrant was extended to search my home.”

“Oh dear.”

“Oh dear, indeed. My poor Louis Quinze…” Beast said, with a truly mournful look in the direction of the sitting room sofa. “They ripped open the upholstery looking for God knows what.  It will be a minor miracle if I can get it redone. It was sheer spite and nothing more.”

“Did the investigators at least leave with their tails between their legs?” Enoch asked.

“Naturally. I have a basement full of taxidermy gear downstairs--do not smirk at me, sir, a man must have some entertainment, especially when the only things available to him are library books and roadkill--and of course that always raises eyebrows, but they found nothing more unusual now than they did five years ago.” Beast sipped his wine.

“Dear me.”

“‘Dear me,’ my God, you have a bleeding heart, Enoch,” Beast sniped. “Rarely have I ever seen a man more torn open by sympathy for another man’s plight.”

“Dear, dear me.”

Beast huffed. He glowered down at his plate for an instant, before: “The Groundskeeper was positively giggling.”

Enoch burst into laughter. That was charming.

But this wasn’t goat.

***

"--but of course is merely in the service of saying that they are confirmed to be in the early days of a romance and, in what I am pretty sure is the opinion of the entire town, not a moment too soon."

"How sweet," Beast said.  "It'll never last, of course."

Enoch glanced up at him, surprised.  The majority of Beast's contributions to the news from Pottsfield consisted in quiet hums and the occasional 'ah.'  This was unprecedented.

"Pardon?" Enoch asked.

"This little romance between them.  It will never work out.  These sorts of things never do," Beast shrugged.  

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"The infatuation is certainly temporary, as variable and subject to alteration as any sufficiently strong passion.  It cannot abide.  Besides, they're nearly colleagues, or so your account of their presence on the chamber of commerce board would suggest."

Enoch smiled and swirled his wine.  "You sound very confident indeed."

"I am."

"I can't help but disagree with your assertion."

"I'm grieved to hear it," Beast murmured, cutting a bite of meat.

"Perhaps you'd be willing to bet on it?" Enoch asked.

Beast paused and looked at him closely.  "A bet?"

"Yes.  You're a gambling man, aren't you?"

"...I have been known to like a wager," Beast admitted.  "What would be the terms?"

"Let's say if my lovebirds are still cooing by the end of the week, you have to..."  Enoch shrugged his shoulders.  "Sing something for me."

Beast leaned forward.  "And if they're not?" he asked.  "What will you do for me?"

Enoch smiled at him.  Oh, anything he wanted.  

"Perhaps I'll bring you another of those very good apple pies," Enoch suggested.

"No," Beast replied, fingers tracing the edge of his wine glass.  "If you lose..."

Enoch watched him, waiting for the decision.

At last, Beast shrugged.  "I like a humiliated opponent as much as the next man.  Perhaps I'll take that precious bolo tie of yours for a week."

Enoch covered his neckwear protectively.  "Hardly sporting."

"I thought you were confident about the intensity of their affection," Beast crooned.  "Surely you can't think there's any danger in it."

No backing down now.  The only thing he could do was try to make sure that Beast and Miss Clara Deen never met.  "Very well.  I accept your terms."  He took another bite of his meal and hummed deeply.  "What is this, by the way?  It's very tasty."

"Veal meatballs," Beast replied.  "Thank you for the compliment."

It had been a few years, but Enoch was fairly sure it wasn't veal.

***

When he arrived at the door, he appeared with a grin.  "I love Mozart."

Beast looked at him with guileless eyes.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Mozart.  I adore his music."

"...don't we all."

"Which is why I'd love to hear you sing a little of it tonight," Enoch finished, grin only growing the wider.

Beast stared at him for a moment before those pale eyes narrowed and he slowly tilted his head.  "Do you have any evidence to support your claim of victory, sir?"

"I think I have a photo in here somewhere," Enoch murmured, fishing his phone out of his pocket and accessing his pictures.  Beast watched him with some suspicion as Enoch passed the device to him, set on a picture of a woman in her late middle age holding hands and smiling with a whip-thin, elderly man in a priest's collar.  "There we are.  Aren't they sweet?"

Beast held the phone very gingerly and brought it up close to his face, squinting at it, and then held it out at arm's length.  "Hm.  And you will swear on your sacred honor that these are the selfsame lovers you mentioned before?"

"Yes."

"That they performed this expression of affection unprompted and consensually?" 

"Yes."

"And that they are aware of all the gesture entails?"

"I swear it."

"Hm," Beast said, peering at the picture for a moment longer.  "Her roots are showing."

Enoch let out a loud belly laugh, and Turtle came trotting in from the other room to butt his head against Enoch's thigh and wag his tail.  The phone in Beast's hands chirped and he nearly dropped it.

"Your...device wants you," he said, passing it eagerly to Enoch.  "Miss Clara Deen, I think?"

"Mmm, yes," Enoch said, checking his texts.  Ah, budget questions.  'Tis the season.  "I'm a little surprised she's texting me, actuallly.  I thought she'd be home by now."

"Well, perhaps she just wants to make sure she stays in your thoughts," Beast said, peeling away towards the stove.  "It would be a heartbreak, to find herself forgotten."

"I'm sure she never needs to fear that happening," Enoch smiled, rapidly firing back a response to his assistant's question and slipping his phone away.  No more interruptions.  "I think you, of all people, can attest to my inability to shut up about all matters Pottsfield."

"Mm. So. You have won your prize.  Do you have any particular requests?" 

Enoch crouched down and began petting Turtle behind the ears. "Don Giovanni?" 

"I believe I can manage that.  Will the champagne aria suffice?"  

"Delicious."  

"Very well. After supper. My most sincere congratulations to the happy couple, I'm so very sure."

After a little more Turtle-petting and a little more than a little more wine-drinking, they sat down in the dining room.

Enoch took a bite of his dinner and could not hope to contain his moan. “Oh, my God.”

Beast didn’t simper, but it was a near-run thing. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Barnes.”

“What is this?”

“Roasted rack of pork.”

“And what goes into it?”

“Hardly anything. Garlic, thyme, rosemary, olive oil.”

“The meat is so tender. This pig was well-treated.”

“Yes, I believe he must have been.” Beast genteelly tucked a rib beneath his veil, presumably to nibble on it.

Funny, how much the pork--absolutely delicious--did taste so much like the goat.  And like the veal.

It was heavenly.  As was the musical performance that followed, not least of which because singing just one Mozart piece was about as easy for Beast as eating one potato chip was for anyone else.  Beast had sung four arias before he caught up with his enthusiasm and stopped, self-consciously dithering about with coffee and dessert while Enoch just tried not to smirk. Oh, but the man still had it.

"Of course, come back in a month and try to tell me they're together," Beast said, pouring the coffee into two cups.

"Want to bet?" Enoch grinned.

***

“Now, I suppose I would call this a culinary orgasm, but I expect you have a different name for it?”

There was a pleased little wiggle of a head and a noise that sounded very much like a satisfied hum. “Lapin a La Cocotte. A personal favorite. I abut on the woods and all I must do is lay a trap or two in the springtime and lo and behold: the reign of man remains unbroken.”

“To say the least, when he can cook his competition so handily."  Enoch took a sip of his wine.  "Ah--and before I forget, you are victorious.  Mr. White's board of appeals bid was unsuccessful, I'm sorry to say.  Budget constraints.  Perhaps he'll do better next year."

"I'm gratified to hear it."

"And so you'll be taking my tie?"

"I will."

"Now?"

"No, no," Beast replied.  A bite of his dinner disappeared behind his veil.  "Keep it on.  I'll take it when I'm ready."

"Prolonging my torture.  Forcing me to suffering the knowledge of a bolo-less future?"

"Precisely.  I like to savor the anticipation."

So did he.  Enoch huffed a soft laugh and took a bite of his own meal.

This was actually rabbit. The texture was right, and in any event the bones would have been hard to explain away. He did wonder, however, about that roadkill comment of some weeks before…

Oh well.  It was too good to worry about things like that.

***

Herod was upstairs when the doorbell rang one Sunday afternoon.

He still hadn’t gotten the house back just the way he liked it after the search. He’d known it was coming, sure enough, and had had the foresight to wait until his Groundskeeper was gone before he did his Spring cleaning. 

The heavy cement cap on the well in the basement--indeed the well itself--the hooks dressed with roadkill, the large ice box, all had to be prepared for a thorough investigation. Years ago he’d had the concrete floor of the basement sealed against the spillage of his hobby, but one could never be too careful about stains, however thoroughly he collected the most of the blood his projects spilled.

Thinking of that, it had been a while since he’d made blutwurst. That would be a treat.

The shameful state of the Louis Quinze aside, the first floor had been relatively unmolested. He’d had to burn a few things and dispose of the ashes, of course, but what he’d had to burn came almost exclusively from the second floor. He’d had to take down almost the whole storey, with the exception of his own bedroom. The ropes had to be brought down, the broken glass he’d allowed to lie idle collected, the bare and broken floors swept of dust, the tarps on the roof refastened, and most of the broken windows covered with wood.

The house was an embarrassment, a reminder of a time when he’d had hopes left to dash. No one purchased an abandoned and mostly-dilapidated house in the expectation that they would keep it that way. He’d only just gotten the first floor renovated when he’d fallen ill, and there had been nothing left to use for the upstairs.

That said, he wasn’t altogether unhappy with the work he’d had to do. The second floor had needed the care and he had been negligent lately when it came to keeping it habitable. He could now comfortably ignore it for another five years.

Well. That was, as soon as he got this last little loop tied.

He fed the working end through the last twist and tugged out the loop to make sure it would fit neatly around whatever came near it. Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and he quickly coiled the rope and stowed it above the door to the guest bedroom before stepping nimbly over the ankle-high fishing line. He took a quick glance in the mirror of the rusted-out bathroom before descending the steps.

“Good afternoon,” he said, opening the door. “Welcome, ladies, it’s a pleasure to have you.”

Ms. Whispers was a wrinkled, pink-nosed, obese woman of about sixty-five with bulbous eyes and a very well-scrubbed look about her. She wore a tidy black dress and a pair of good-quality, sensible black shoes with just a bit of mud on the edges. Her niece was equally tidy-looking: a slender and delicate wisp of a creature, all huge brown eyes, hung with dark circles and staring out of a pale, pretty face. Herod felt a certain bitter amusement at the sight of her; how nice, to be so pretty while so demurely ill.

Neither of them would be any good for his more culinary purposes, but it was important to charm and please the kinds of people who made gory discoveries. They were better as allies than as strangers.

Ms. Whispers wore a smile Herod considered a little vapid but nevertheless extremely sweet, and in her hands she carried a box.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bethlehem,” she rasped. Herod smiled just a little behind his mask, bewildered. She had a strange voice, very deep and gravelly, and breathier than he might’ve expected from her frame. “Thank you for the invitation. You have a beautiful front garden. We were just talking with your groundskeeper...such a charming man.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Herod replied, craning his neck to look out at his employee. The man was pulling weeds from the hydrangea bed and darting glances up at the door. His cap was pulled low on his eyes, but not low enough to hide the way color stained his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks.

Well, now. If that wasn’t just handing Herod a loaded gun. His smile widened behind his mask all the more.

“Come in, please,” he said. “For years I’ve walked by your house and admired your front garden myself.”

“That’s all Lorna’s doing,” Ms. Whispers said, clearly aglow with pride for her niece. “She has a green thumb.”

“I admire it intensely. Now--I’m afraid I have only black tea, but I can offer a little coffee, as well…”

***

Lorna had never been so bored in all her born days.

It was almost enough to be offensive, honestly. When Mr. Bethlehem had opened the door in that bizarre costume, she’d been delighted. Here was someone who was surely very peculiar and very interesting! No one wore a mask like that and gloves indoors without reason. He must be an eccentric! And when they all sat down in the sitting room with that torn-open sofa and the eerie deer skull over the fireplace, she’d been ready to adore him.

Instead, he was no different from any other retiring older gentleman Lorna could imagine. He mentioned that he’d put the dog out, uncertain if either of them had allergies, and Lorna wished he hadn’t been so considerate on that matter. At least with a dog in the room, she’d have something to pet and look at while Auntie Whispers and Mr. Bethlehem talked on and on and on about old person things.

Oh, yes, how they both adored classical music! Oh, yes, wasn’t it a shame how there were no artists currently working in the milieu? Oh, yes, the neighborhood was growing older, but surely good taste was timeless! Oh, yes, it was a ghastly thing to discover on a morning walk, and weren’t horrors compounding? Didn’t you hear about last week--I’m afraid I did, my dear madame, and does it seem like--oh, but all the world was going insane, one would think they were on the brink of Judgement Day.

The tea was mostly-drinkable, but bizarrely tannic, and the cookies were undeniably good. She didn’t want to stare at Mr. Bethlehem, on the chance that he was self-conscious, but every now and then she looked up and found him watching her aunt with very still, attentive eyes. Lorna herself might’ve been wallpaper.

She’d been almost pleased when he complimented her garden. She really worked hard on that. The bonemeal was so good for her flowers.

At last she could bear it no more.

“Excuse me, please,” she breathed, intending to walk towards the foyer and the bathroom she’d seen off to the side when they’d entered. She could pretend to be violently ill. If she could just make herself vomit, maybe Auntie Whispers would cut this interminable tea short.

Mr. Bethlehem got to his feet when she rose, acknowledging her departure with a gesture too formal and affected not to annoy her--if he was only a little more bizarre, how delightful this would be!--and her aunt smiled at her.

As she passed through the kitchen towards the powder room, she spied a door set on the opposite side of the staircase to the upper floor. It must lead to the basement.

Well, she might as well entertain herself, if the old people were just going to be old.

Lorna flicked the light and fan on in the bathroom and closed the door before tiptoeing to the basement door. It was closed, but not locked, and she silently turned the handle before disappearing behind the door.

Maybe there would be a ping-pong table or something.

***

The minute the girl left the room, Herod found himself on edge. Oh, she said she was going to the bathroom, but how could he be certain? He didn’t mind having tender, impressionable young things wandering around his house--not at all. The problem was that while the girl alone was no match for his house, her guardian was here, and watching him.

Ms. Whispers might manage to escape, if anything untoward should happen. And then what, after all?

Five minutes passed, and as time went on he began to appreciate more and more Enoch’s astonishing ability to carry on a commonplace little gossip for so long and with such apparent interest and excitement. He felt a bit like he was going to crawl out of his skin if he was called upon to carry any more of this conversation, yet the other man could not only keep it up but even make it sound nearly interesting.

At last, he seized upon the tea kettle as a means of escape.

“Pardon me for just a moment,” he said. “I’ll make a little more hot water.”

“Of course,” Ms. Whispers rasped, and took another little gasp from the inhaler she kept in a pocket.

He filled the electric kettle and set it to boil, never gladder that it had a loud buzz. He slipped towards the bathroom and saw with some suspicion that the light was on within and the fan was buzzing. She was safely stowed away, then, and he reluctantly paced back towards the kitchen, when--

Oh dear.

The tape on the basement door was off.

He kept the tape on the door purely for his own peace of mind. The problem with the music room was that it was just a little too far out of sight line to keep an eye on the door to the basement, and while the Groundskeeper was here Herod could never feel perfectly secure that his privacy was uninvaded. He really suspected the man was a cop in deep cover, but he had no way of proving it.

Until now, the tape had never been disturbed.

Dear, dear me.

Herod swiftly swept to the front door and shut the internal bolt, putting the key in his pocket. The backdoor was unlocked, but Turtle was there and it would take a single word from Herod to make him guard the old woman very effectively. She was a broken-down old thing, and even if he had to get physical he was fairly sure they’d be matched.

He silently removed his shoes and opened the door, glad not for the first time that it had an oiled hinge, and carefully slipped into the basement.

The stairs were in good condition and bore his weight silently. Perhaps he should see about fixing that. Hearing a footfall on a staircase while he was down here might be the only way he’d survive being similarly surprised, one day. For now, he was glad of the peace, and slithered silently to the floor, eyes bright and alert in the gloaming dimness of his basement.

The basement was a cold cement room, almost as large as the footprint of the house. To one side, behind a door, was his washer and dryer and his bed of mushrooms. To the other was his main operating room, where he kept what carcasses he happened upon and dressed them--or undressed them, as the case may prove to require. Further back towards the sitting room was the room where he kept his tools, ordinary, run of the mill housekeeping utensils, and some old, rotting furniture.

He could kick himself for failing to take the stone cap off the well. He could just seize the girl and toss her in, and all would be well, but oh, no…

The child was standing near the tool room, examining the blades and utensils hanging from the wall. This could still be explained, then--he’d claim he came down to check his wine cellar, and send her back upstairs while all she knew was that he enjoyed skinning dead animals…

But the girl hummed and turned towards the icebox, tucked between the tool room and the main part of the basement, and pulled on the handle to unlock the freezer door.

Too bad.

Herod reached a hand down at the side of the steps, where he kept a few things in expectation of precisely this kind of emergency. He picked up the heavy iron pry bar and gripped it firmly, heaving it to his shoulder.

“Oh, my goodness,” the girl gasped, standing in the glow of the icebox bulb and staring at the morbid contents of the freezer. He and Enoch had been eating very well recently, and he'd tucked the less savory scraps away for his own solitary meals. There could be no mistaking what they were. The girl reached out to touch one of the frozen pieces of meat. “Oh, my goodness…”

Herod stole up behind her and readied his grip. At the very least he had to knock her out. If he could kill her in one blow, it would be best. She was sickly, oh, yes, but surely he could cook out the worst of the germs. Perhaps he’d ask her aunt just what it was the poor child suffered from, before he poisoned her tea.

He was going to have to find a way to get his letters out of their house.

He swung the bar back, and jerked it forward to smite a lethal blow.

Something huge and powerful slammed into his side and threw him to the ground. The girl cried out, struck lightly by the bar as it glanced off her back and clattered harmlessly to the floor. For a dizzy instant, Herod almost thought the weight on him was Enoch’s, the rekindled friendship a mere smokescreen for a terribly clever betrayal and capture.

But the titanic bicep that caught him around the throat and began to clench did not smell like Enoch, and above him he heard the girl cry, “Oh! Auntie Whispers, please don’t!”

“I do this for you, Lorna,” the old woman croaked in his ear, tightening her grip on Herod’s throat. He choked and thrashed, trying to get air back in his lungs. He was already light-headed and black spots began to swim in front of his eyes.  Less than nine seconds before he lost consciousness, and when--if--he awoke, everything else shortly thereafter.  He tore desperately at the arm around his neck, but he had not completely lied to Enoch; he was too weak for such a deed.

“Please, mum, please, you must let him go!” Lorna pleaded. 

“Lorna--” 

“Auntie,” the girl cried, just as Herod’s body gave up and the darkness swam up to take him, “he’s just like me!”


	5. The Grounds

Daddy makes rawhide bones for him.

When Daddy has prey, he likes to stay upstairs and keep an eye on the doors. (Sometimes Wood Man tries to open the door and someone’s got to be there to growl at him and remind him that Wood Man stays outside. He is head of security. It’s his job.)

Daddy is a tall dog and when he takes another tall dog prey into the basement, it’s sometimes hours until he sees him again. Daddy always comes upstairs smelling tasty, and Daddy usually strips off his sticky gloves, washes his hands, and spends some time petting him and telling him he’s a good boy. Then he gets a brain freeze or maybe long tubes of meat for a treat, and it’s good.

The rawhide bones appear later. Daddy twists them into shapes for him and gives him one when he’s been an especially good boy. He remembers the taste of the hide from when he bit a mean tall dog in the bad house. He loves the taste of the hide.

None of the other puppies from the bad house are treated so well, he’s certain. Daddy picked him out and brought him home and taught him how to be a good boy, which was all he ever wanted to be, anyway. He loves his home and he loves his Daddy. He has lots of food and long walks and sometimes sofa permission and always petting, and he gets to sleep on the bed with Daddy at night.

He’s in the garden now, chewing his bone with his butt in the air, tail wagging. He likes to throw the bone a few feet away and pounce on it, make it feel more like a hunt. Daddy likes to hunt and he likes to hunt and together they do a good job for their pack.

The back door opens and he pops his head up. Daddy’s not whistling or clicking, or even calling his name. He picks up his bone and trots towards the house, curious.

There’s a new tall dog standing at the door. It’s not Big. He drops his bone and hunkers down, snarling quietly. Where’s Daddy?

The tall dog burbles something in a soft, high coo, and the burble ends in ‘puppy.’ He doesn’t always like how tall dogs burble on. It worries him. Daddy sometimes howls and likes to burble a lot with Big, but he can talk, too, and say things like “walk” and “good boy” and “treat.”

The tall dog crouches down and extends a paw towards, him, saying “good boy, nice boy.” He darts away for a second--strange paws turn mean if you’re not careful--before coming slowly closer, growl growing.

The tall dog burbles and says “that’s right, come here, Turtle.” He comes closer still and warily sniffs the paw.

This tall dog smells a lot like how Daddy smells, but also like a female and like a different kind of clothes-smell. Behind him, his tail hesitantly wags. He likes Daddy’s smell, even though this tall dog isn’t someone whose smell he knows.

The tall dog’s paw scratches behind his ears and his wagging gains strength. He growls anyway, for good measure.

“Come on in,” the tall dog says, and slowly stands up. He slips through the backdoor and finds his Daddy lying on the sofa. He hurries over and sniffs his Daddy, growling when he smells old fear on his Daddy’s skin, beneath the clothes.

Daddy’s asleep. He noses intently against Daddy’s hand and leans up to lick Daddy’s silver face.

There are other tall dogs here. He needs to wake up.

***

There are a number of unpleasant ways to wake up.

If he had to make a list, dog-tongue-in-the-eye was definitely in his personal top three.

He managed to push Turtle off and almost had himself levered upright before a small hand touched his shoulder and shoved him back down.

“Shh, shh, shh,” the girl, Lorna, said. “Don’t try and push yourself. Here. Drink this.”

A cup of hot fluid found its way into his hands and he clutched at it for a moment. He was not wearing the right mask to drink it. The dog headbutted his knee and looked at him with pleading eyes.

He had lost the thread of the whole afternoon.

He turned his head to see the elderly Ms. Whispers sitting in his armchair, busily knitting. She frowned at him and made a quiet hmph.

Miss Lorna hovered over him in a particularly solicitous and particularly terrifying manner. “Are you all right? Does your head hurt?”

His throat was the problem, actually. He cleared it and winced at the pain.

“Drink your broth,” Lorna said, “I’m sure you’ll feel better for it. You poor thing! We’re so sorry--”

“I’m not,” Ms. Whispers huffed.

“Auntie!”

“I am not,” Ms. Whispers repeated. She gave her niece a hard stare before turning a serious glower on Herod. “He was going to try and kill you and cook you up. I don’t regret choking him out, not at all.”

Lorna heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Well, I’m sorry. You had a very natural reaction, Mr. Bethlehem, and I would’ve surely done the same thing if someone had invaded my privacy that way! But you needn’t have worried. Really! I’m sympathetic to your tastes!”

Maybe he’d died. Maybe his oxygen-starved brain was having some kind of paroxysm in these last instants. Maybe he was dreaming.

“What,” he managed to croak.

“Oh, your poor voice,” Lorna crooned. “Really. Drink your broth. I found it in the refrigerator and had a little myself--it’s very good, you are quite a chef--and I’m sure you’ll feel just like yourself.”

He swallowed painfully and moved to hitch himself up again. Lorna fluttered about with a pillow to support him and dutifully disappeared off into the kitchen when he fumbled at his chin. Ms. Whispers was focused on her knitting and didn’t pay him any attention at all as he tilted his mask up just enough to bare his mouth and wedge the cup against his lower lip.

The heat and wetness of the broth was painful, but it loosened up his throat and he sighed and licked his lips after he drained the cup. Lorna appeared almost instantly with the replenished tea tray.

“I suppose I have you to look to, as far as that display in the graveyard is concerned?” he said, voice still too rough for his comfort.

Lorna blushed. “Well…”

“The antler was inspired,” he said.

She looked up at him, mouth curling in a very sweet smile. “Do you really think so? I just had it lying around and I really thought it would make for a good silhouette.”

Well. That was a better reason for it than he’d expected, but his suspicion was confirmed: here was a designer, not an artist.

“You mostly took from the legs,” he observed.

Lorna nodded. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

“Here you are, auntie,” the girl said, passing a cup to her aged relation. Ms. Whispers took the cup with a hum of thanks, sat more deeply in the chair, and set the cup, saucer and all, on the flat table provided by her ample bosom. Lorna passed him a cup of his own, taking away the broth mug.

“Yes, I think the meat of the legs is tastier,” Lorna said, settling herself on the sofa beside him. “It’s tough, but I like that. It’s more fortifying. I can’t really get through the whole body by myself, so I just take the parts I like.”

“Ah, I see,” he murmured. “Ms. Whispers, you do not--”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Ms. Whispers grumbled, giving him a baleful stare over her knitting. “I stay out of it.”

“I’m the only one who needs it,” Lorna said meekly, her shy smile disappearing under a rosy cloud of embarrassment. The girl was so eager to talk to someone she thought was sympathetic. Evidently she didn’t get this kind of conversation at home.

‘Needs it.’ So she, too, was afflicted, and did not get the sustenance she required. No wonder she liked the broth, if she was wasting away.

He almost wanted to reach out and pat her hand, express some kind of approval and validation, reward her candor. She was a very brave little thing, brave to the point of recklessness. Youthful. Refreshing.

“Of course,” he said, in his most understanding voice. “The face?”

“Oh! That was just for art’s sake. I didn’t eat it. I just made it into fertilizer.”

“Ah. That explains those beautiful peonies.”

“Yes! Exactly. Um, and as far as the rest of the young man is concerned, I’m afraid I have a kind of fondness for...um.” She sipped her tea and blushed a very delicate shade of rose. “The posterior. Rump roast. It’s tender, you know?”

He watched her turn so thoroughly pink. Embarrassment, over the mere description of a man’s backside, and not over the fact that she liked to eat the meat of it?

What a charming girl.

He nodded his head. “Obviously the superior cooking method is a spatchcock, but I find it’s especially tasty if you push butter under the skin. Have you tried that yet?”

Those dark eyes positively sparkled as the girl gave him a sunshine grin and even Ms. Whispers’ disapproving huff wasn’t enough to keep him from smiling under his mask.

***

She almost skipped on the walk home, holding the slim volume of poetry to her chest. Mr. Bethlehem--Herod, he’d said his name was, and invited her to use it--had written out a few of his own recipes and tucked them between the leaves of the book. Auntie Whispers had given the book a baleful look and even now seemed to be in a huff over the entire afternoon.

Lorna tucked her hair behind her ear and tried not to look too delighted. “Are you still very angry, auntie?”

“How could I not be, Lorna?” Auntie Whispers replied, her jaw tight.

“Oh, but he’s so nice, mum!” Lorna insisted, petitioning on Mr. Beth--Herod’s behalf. “He didn’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”

“No, but he did it against you. And that’s all the difference in the world.” Auntie Whispers stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and took Lorna by the shoulders. “My dearest, I know you’re happy to have met someone you think is a friend, but he cannot be trusted.”

“I know that, auntie,” Lorna said with a smile. “Of course I can’t trust him. I know what he’s thinking, after all, because I’m thinking it, too. But it’s so nice to have someone I can talk to honestly.”

Auntie Whispers made an aggravated face. “Lorna.”

“Please, mum? Please, let me at least talk to him?” she pleaded. “I really don’t have anyone in the neighborhood to call a friend, not even among the children.”

“There is a reason for that,” Auntie Whispers replied. “Lorna, this will only make you more wicked. You know it will. It’s one thing, to sometimes need to...feed your sister, but it’s quite another to treat it like some kind of ghoulish entertainment.”

Lorna sighed and lowered her head. Yes, her sister wanted a body all her own, and wouldn’t be satisfied without it. But if Lorna herself couldn’t have some fun with this and find some beauty in it, well. There was no point in her being alive, except inasmuch as she was there to be her sister’s servant.

Auntie Whispers wouldn’t understand that. She didn’t have to share anything with her sisters.

Sister.

“I know, mum,” she murmured. “I don’t want to be wicked, really, I don’t. But...can I have one friend? Just one?”

Auntie Whispers heaved a deep sigh. “...I will let you visit him again, but not without me as a chaperone. We’ll see how it goes. But I will not allow you to be alone with him. He’s dangerous.”

Lorna threw her arms around her aunt and squeezed. “Thank you, auntie!”

And she really _was_ grateful.

But Mister--But Herod had written his phone number on the back of one of the recipes. And, of course, he was retired, and home all day long, just like her.

And Auntie Whispers worked during the weekdays.

***

Enoch’s smile, already pretty wide, only grew the more as he read the article in the gazette. Victory.

He lifted his voice a bit--no need to ring the buzzer when the door was already open. “Miss Clara? Could I have a moment of your time?”

The assistant appeared in the doorway with a smile. “Of course, Enoch--what can I do for you?”

“I have a culinary question, as it happens,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m afraid I’ve lost a bet and dinner is on the line.”

“So you need a menu.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Miss Clara put a finger to her chin and considered the ceiling for a moment. “Well, you can’t go wrong with grilled steak. Butcher Jefferson was bragging to my brother just the other day about the steers he’s seen this season.”

Oh dear, dear, no. He liked a steak just as well as the next man, surely, but he wouldn’t bear to serve something so pedestrian to Beast. He might not recreate that not-quite-caille en sarcophage (he was almost certain it had actually been pigeon) but he could surely do just a little better than a rib eye.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Perhaps something a little more...artistic? Do you know what I mean? Pageantry.”

“Pageantry.”

“Yes,” Enoch replied. “Theater. You know. Something to please a refined palate.”

“Refined palates don’t dislike hamburgers,” Miss Clara observed cannily.

Enoch grinned. “No palate I would respect, I agree! But I want to make a little bit more of an atmosphere, Miss Clara, if you understand me. Something that suits wine, candlelight...possibly even opera. Something rich. Sumptuous, maybe.”

Miss Clara’s mouth curled in a strange little smile and she stepped into the office, closing the door behind her and leaning on it. She twiddled the tip of her left middle finger with her right hand for a few instants before looking at him.

“Is this about romance, Enoch?” she asked, biting her lower lip to contain her smile.

He sat back in his chair. “What makes you think that?”

“Everything,” she replied. “I’ve never known you to guard any appointment as jealously as you guard your Friday nights. Everyone knows the mayor is not to be found in Pottsfield of a Friday evening. Not for anything. And for those five, six hours a week, you won’t even read your texts. The rest of the time I can’t get you off your phone. This is something significant, isn’t it?”

Enoch played with the pen in his hand, spinning it around his fingers. He smiled at his assistant. “Very observant, Miss Clara. I admit it’s a compelling picture, but I’m afraid all your evidence is very circumstantial. What you describe is nothing necessarily more profound than a deep, intimate friendship.”

“Wine. Candlelight.”

“Do you not enjoy a little atmosphere at your own dinners?” he asked lightly.

“Enoch,” Miss Clara insisted. “The word ‘sumptuous’ cannot be used platonically.”

He let out a little chuckle. “Miss Clara, really…”

“Have I done anything to make you think I don’t support you?” Miss Clara asked, a little frown beginning to appear on her forehead. “I wouldn’t run around telling everyone, but I can’t help but speculate a little. It’s been three whole months, Enoch. It looks kind of serious.”

Enoch put his pen down and laced his fingers across his belly, contemplating the ceiling for an instant.

“It is most definitely not a romantic liaison,” he said in a measured, quiet voice. “Though not for lack of trying.”

Miss Clara trotted forward and leaned on his desk. Her smile was delighted and it was with visible difficulty that she tamped it down to something suitably thoughtful and considering. “Will you tell me about him?”

“You’re so sure it’s a him.”

“Enoch,” Miss Clara said, giving him a look. “Even if Mister, ah, Bert? Barth?”

Enoch gave her an incredulous smile. Like his Miss Clara Deen could forget a name if she tried.

“Bethlehem,” she conceded. “Even if he hadn’t called those weeks ago, well...you are a single man of a certain age with fastidious habits of dress and a fondness for musical theater.”

Enoch’s eyes widened. “That--that is a stereotype, Miss Clara Deen, and I will thank you not to employ it.”

Miss Clara held up her hands. “Fair enough, fair enough. Never mind. That was unworthy.”

“My solitude is merely a consequence of my devotion to this town and my position as its servant.” He picked up his pen and began twiddling it once more. “But. Yes. It’s Mr. Bethlehem. He’s an old friend I’d lost touch with and now we’re getting to know one another again.”

“He’s got a fantastic voice,” Miss Clara supplied, with just a bit of a flutter.

Enoch sighed. “Doesn’t he?”

They eyed each other for a moment and Miss Clara burst briefly into nervous giggles. “Sorry! Sorry. Just, um. Tell me about him.”

Oof. Exactly how did one describe Beast to the uninitiated?

“He’s a little over six feet tall. Very slim. He has pale eyes and skin and he’s very...dark.” Or he was, anyway. Enoch was pretty sure Beast didn’t have a beard anymore, but he couldn’t be sure. He might still have dark hair, or it might’ve gone white. The mystery was alluring in and of itself. “He dresses well and he has beautiful hands.”

Miss Clara put her hand to her chest and sighed prettily. “Golly, what a heart-stopper.”

“That’s definitely how I’d describe him,” Enoch said with a little grin. “He’s got pretty artistic, obscure tastes. Loves French poetry, loves to cook. He likes wine and philosophy and he’s an opera singer, of all things. He has a large rescue dog and I think he dotes on it.”

“Oh, a rescue?” Miss Clara crooned. “Enoch, he sounds wonderful. What a sweet man!”

He might actually have to recount this description to Beast himself. He’d probably find it amusing.

“I suppose that’s him in broad strokes,” Enoch said with a little shrug. “He’s a gambling man. We make bets down and then, silly little things, but dinner was on the line, and it looks like this will be the first time he’ll come to mine instead of me going to his.”

“Then this is serious,” Miss Clara nodded. “Well, I’ll give Mrs. Stringer a call. Her granddaughter is looking to make some money for college and I know she does a great job cleaning houses. A bouquet is no problem at all, I’ll make sure someone puts it on the dining room table.”

“Menus,” Enoch hummed.

“There’s always oysters,” Miss Clara said with a wink.

He huffed a laugh. “Maybe I’ll figure this one out on my own. After I call him and let him know he’s won our bet.”

“If I think of something clever, I’ll let you know.” Miss Clara nibbled on her lip. “Would you like me to place the call? Official channels and all that.”

Enoch tilted his head a little. “You want to hear his voice again.”

Miss Clara grinned. “Can you blame me?”

“Indeed, no,” Enoch replied. He pulled out his phone. “But I think I’d better handle this myself. Is Friday still open in the evening?”

“Wide open. Shall I call Mrs. Stringer?”

“Please. And would you mind closing the door on your way out?”

Miss Clara gave him a wink and hopped to it. Alone, Enoch hit Beast’s name on his contact list.

Five rings. Six. He was beginning to think that Beast was occupied, when the phone was suddenly answered.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice asked. She sounded young, and perhaps a little shy.

“Hello,” Enoch replied, frowning. “I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong number.”

“Oh. Sorry!”

“Apologies.”

“Goodbye.”

He hung up and frowned a little to himself, fishing his notepad out of the policy and budget debris. He’d written down Beast’s number when his friend had first called him about the police, but he hadn’t had any occasion to use it since then. Perhaps he’d recorded it wrong.

He laboriously re-entered the number and called again.

This time, there were only three rings.

“Hello?” the young woman said again. Behind her voice, he could hear the faint sounds of piano music. “May I help you?”

Enoch frowned. “Hello. I’m calling for Bea--for Mr. Bethlehem?”

“Oh, yes,” the young woman said. “Herod’s just in the music room. I’ll go get him--who’s calling?”

“Enoch Barnes. Thank you.”

He tucked the phone against his shoulder, steepled his fingers, and pressed the tips against his lips. Strange. Beast had always been so clear about Enoch being the only person to visit him. What to make of this new development?

After another several long moments and the cessation of the soft piano, he heard the distant clearing of a throat.

“Enoch,” Beast purred. “Apologies. I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to work with some new music.”

“Not at all. I’m glad to hear you’ve got something to vent your passions,” Enoch replied. “I hope I didn’t interrupt?”

“No, no. You caught Lorna when you first called. She’s a young lady in the neighborhood, the niece of that poor woman who found the body in the graveyard. We’ve become bosom friends, as it happens. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, this is mostly a social call. I just wanted to pick up the phone and let you know: I won.”

There was a pause and Enoch couldn’t help the sly grin that spread across his face at Beast’s unspoken irritation.

“I’m going to have to have a little more evidence of that, my friend,” Beast said slowly.

“My word is not enough?”

“You’re a politician, Enoch,” Beast drawled. “I need something more concrete before I’ll roll over and show you my belly.”

“Very well, very well. I’ve got the Pottsfield Picayune before me--”

“Oh, of course it’s a picayune…”

“And your meaning would be?”

“Your town is charming beyond my capacity for speech, Enoch. I believe you were about to quote?”

“Let me see now, I’ve lost my place.” Enoch put on his glasses and began reading the headlines. “‘Nine Quincy County student receive scholarship,’ no, ‘Grocery hosts stream clean-up,’ no, ‘Pottsfield essay and poster contest winners to be exhibited,’ ah, I’ll have to put a pin in that...here we are! ‘Road redesign moving too fast, Pottsfield residents say.’”

“I hang on your every word.”

Enoch read aloud the article. It was an issue that had been plaguing the community for a few years, now that there was a greater proportion of young people who commuted to and from Pottsfield and the city. Some of the residential streets had been treated almost as commuter roads, causing a serious speeding problem, and the county Department Of Public Works and Transportation had called a meeting to discuss solution designs.

When Enoch had mentioned it, Beast had somewhat sarcastically claimed that the meeting would surely be the best attended event in years, considering the crisis the town was facing. The bet had been made shortly after: if the turn-out was fifty percent of the town or higher, Enoch would be responsible for their next dinner. Less, and it fell to Beast to give Enoch a full tour of the neighborhood, including all the discovery places of the victims Beast had been accused of making.

“‘Approximately 300 residents were in attendance--’”

Right on cue, Beast said, “Stop there.”

“Hm?”

“You said the population of Pottsfield is six hundred, correct?”

“Five hundred and ninety four.”

“Then you are mistaken. I have won our bet.”

“Nonsense, Beast! Approximately 300, the paper says it very specifically. 300 is just barely half the town, but if we don’t have an accurate number, it could be less.”

“It could be more, as well,” Beast replied. “‘Approximately’ means only that--not ‘nearly,’ which would prove your point.”

Enoch clucked his tongue. “Beast, come now. Surely you must admit of the impossibility of determining the exactly number of attendees!”

“‘Approximately,’ Enoch. Call the reporter or do whatever you must, but I tell you that that word does not mean ‘less than.’”

Enoch huffed a most artificial sigh. “Beast--”

“Three hundred plus attendees. I confess myself astonished that I was right, that it was so very well-attended, but even so. My instincts are correct. You all have a urge for civic duty and responsibility that is surpassingly virtuous.”

Enoch grinned to himself, cupping his phone in his hand. “How complimentary you are, when you think you’ve got your dinner wrapped up.”

Beast snorted. “I’m far past the point of needing to sing for my supper, Enoch. This was about the thrill of victory, plain and simple.”

“Then shall I look for you at six on Friday?”

“I will be there. I trust you haven’t moved house since you gave me your mailing address?”

“I have not.”

“Good. A bienôt, Enoch.”

“And you,” Enoch replied, ending the call. Hook, line, and sinker.

He drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments.

Oysters, eh?

***

It took Herod almost three days to realize he’d been had.

It was embarrassing but he had to give credit where it was due. Enoch was a very clever man, and he made a living out of getting people to do what he wanted.

He didn’t like to think about why Enoch wanted this. He liked Enoch, genuinely and sincerely liked him, and it was painful in a distant, distressing sort of way, to speculate about the wherefores of his role in the man’s social calendar. It was one thing, for him to come to visit Herod like a permanent sideshow attraction or worse, out of a sense of twisted, amused pity, but it was quite another for him to work so diabolically on Herod’s already-limping pride and use it to pry him from his sanctuary…and for what, after all?

Resigned to his fate, he began pulling himself together. He had one honestly good pair of shoes and he carefully polished them on Thursday night. The boot polish was quite old by now but he didn’t throw things away, not any more.

He had a bottle of silver polish, too. He went to work on both his masks in the morning, gold and silver alike, working over the crevices and carvings with a soft toothbrush. He knew himself well enough to identify his own anxiety in the compulsive rubbing and buffing he gave his faces, but at least the activity was not groundless. The fact of the matter was that Enoch could not be expected to light his home in a manner flattering to Herod--most flattering would be pitch darkness, after all--and if he was going to be glared at by overhead lights the least he could do was make sure he was as spotlessly clean as an unclean man could be. He always tried to keep himself tidy, for his own self-respect if nothing else, but today he forced himself through the indignity of a particularly long shower before he dressed.

It had been a very long time since he’d bought new clothing, because in the first place it was not in his budget and in the second place it would be an extremely cold day in hell before he entrusted any part of his personal care and appearance to the Groundskeeper. He put on the best he had. It was not much, but the hems of the trousers and the sleeves were still good and as-yet unadorned by mending. He looked himself over very, very carefully in the mirror, imagining those keen politician’s eyes picking out every little weakness and point of privation.

At least Enoch hasn’t been on the second floor yet. A small mercy.

He dabbed a very small amount of cologne on his wrists and throat and hoped the familiar scent would be enough to calm him as the evening wore on.

He gave Lorna a call, for courtesy’s sake, if nothing else. He liked the girl, he really did. He didn’t trust her--he was pretty sure he caught her licking her lips the last time he stretched for something on a high shelf--but she was refreshing and clever and it was just so nice to be with someone who knew things.

(Her palate was not as good as Enoch’s. It was strange but it was true. She knew what she was eating, sought it out, even, but Enoch had a sense of spices and flavors that transcended the ingredient list. Herod appreciated that about him.)

He ate a light meal, concerned about what his nerves would do to his digestion. He’d never eaten well before a performance. Interesting to know that some habits were still intact.

In the afternoon he worked on some of the new music Lorna had brought him. Piano was difficult, but certain pieces were not impossible. It was pleasing to find that he could still pick out enough to accompany himself, and that an unfamiliar tune, besides which. He’d played all the old things to pieces.

In the evening, he went out into his garden with a flayed-open brown paper bag and a pair of shears. Calla lilies, blood-red roses, thick and fleshy red-eyed white peony blossoms, and red carnations fell into his arms, sliced down in the prime of their beauty. For just an instant his fingers stammered over one of his prettier experiments before he decided that if he could bear to part with it, it must still wait a while yet. He couldn’t be giving a mayor poisons, no, no matter how fond he was of the man.

He twisted his bouquet wrapper closed and stepped back into the house. He locked the basement door and the front door, throwing all the bolts, including the one that must be locked from within. This accomplished, he patted Turtle on the head a few times, checked his water dish, instructed him to keep guard, and let himself out through the back door. He locked the knob and the three deadbolts, and walked around to the front yard.

The Groundskeeper was waiting in his car.

Herod hadn’t been in a car for some while. The last wheeled transportation was years ago, one of those hospital access vans that obliged him to be surrounded by the sick and enfeebled, as if he needed a reminder. Before that, Isolde had driven him a few times. Before that, his own vehicle, sold off more than a pair of decades now.

He certainly couldn’t drive himself. His license had long-since expired, and even if he could pass the vision test, he’d be damned before he had another reminder of his face.

The Groundskeeper stared at the flowers with an expression of transparent shock and suspicion, and Herod almost wished he could really glare. Instead, he got in the car silently and buckled himself in, holding his rigid dignity close to his chest.

The ride was tense. He didn’t like relying upon the Groundskeeper, not even slightly, but there was no other alternative. He couldn’t ask Lorna. Embarrassing as it was to have his gardener see him in this state, it would be positively exposing a weakness to the girl, and he’d always rather expose his weakness to his prey than to another predator.

He gave the Groundskeeper directions; he still had some maps of the route to the country towns outside the city, and though much had changed the essential arteries were the same. The world had moved a great deal since he’d last been down these streets.

He tried not to think about it.

The Groundskeeper didn’t turn on the radio, and he didn’t offer to do so, either. It was a blessing. Music was the one thing he had been able to keep up with after all this time, but he’d rather just focus his powers for the evening ahead.

It was completely uncharted territory. It was terrifying.

He rolled his hands into fists, muscles bunching painfully around the hard stems of the flowers. He berated himself silently, mortified by his own dread. He must relax. He can’t unbend his fingers perfectly as it is, so the very last thing he needed was to lose the rest of the extension in an anxiety-fueled fit.

A muscle clenched in his jaw. It twinged as the cornfields blurred past them and the sign for Pottsfield roared up beside him and flew by.

From here, he was as lost as the silent Groundskeeper. Fortunately, Enoch actually lived on Main Street, and they found that without too much difficulty.

The Groundskeeper pulled up in front of the house. It was a big, beautiful farmhouse with an enormous wraparound porch. The facade was painted red, with white molding and a dark roof and shutters. The lawn was exquisitely green, ornamented with a small border garden of lilies huddling close to the foot of the porch. Adirondack chairs and a white-painted end table sat on the porch, facing a pair of rocking chairs on the other side of the front door. The windows were in good repair, the roof tidy, the walk a pretty mosaic of white and grey pebbles. There was even a chipper little mailbox with the name Barnes painted on it in a swirling, feminine script, and a flagpole jutting off the porch with the state flag hanging from it.

Herod took it all in, sitting very still in the car.

He had to pull it together. He had to get a grip. He couldn’t just have the Groundskeeper turn around; as bad as the ride here had been, it would be so much worse to be trapped in this vehicle for an hour with a smug servant crowing over his humiliation.

Besides, he couldn’t ever face Enoch again, if he ran now.

It was just like going onstage. He had a performance ahead of him and a well-worn role to play. He had an audience who wanted to be entertained and thrilled.

Who was he to disappoint them?

He released the seat belt buckle and tugged on the door handle.

The Groundskeeper watched him go with that impenetrable scowl on his face. Herod had only just closed the door behind when the vehicle began to move, all-but leaving a patch in its eagerness to get away.

He sucked in a deep breath. No going back, now.

At least Pottsfield was rather dead of a late Friday afternoon. He didn’t see anyone out on their porches.

No one to see their mayor being visited by the strange thing in a mask. Good. That was for the best.

He walked up to the front door and contemplated the mat at his feet. Welcome, it said. No pith, no irony, only the barest filigree for decoration.

Pottsfield.

Herod stood before the door, dithering mightily for a few moments. The flowers clenched in his hand made him burn with humiliation and he held them up and dropped them down and behind his back and hastily back down again before he just let them hang there, wishing he’d shoved them into the back of the Groundskeeper’s car while he had the chance.

He straightened his back, rebuked himself for being so pathetic, and rang the doorbell.

The answer was not instantaneous, but not far off from that.

“Beast!”

If he ever got to the point when that nickname no longer had power over him, someone should check for a pulse.

Enoch Barnes was standing in his doorway, looking perfectly handsome and at home in his cozy foyer, dressed down and jacketless, with his shirt open by a few buttons at the neck. He reached out and caught a startled Herod up in a frankly bone-cracking hug, pressing him against an enormous, pillowy chest and belly and making the tips of his toes skate across the ground at the sudden, partial lift. Herod went rigid and strained desperately to relax into the embrace.

“Glad you could make it,” Enoch said, setting him down back down after a few long, warm moments, and steering him inside with a hand on his shoulder strong enough to nearly send Herod sprawling. Leave it to a giant to be physically demonstrative when on his home turf. “Come in, come in. Traffic wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all,” Herod replied, examining the house in which he now found himself.

Sunshine slanted in just enough to keep the house warmly lit, but the relative shade was a blessing even with the sun going down. The floor was done all in coppery oak hardwood, the finish not so much shiny as well-loved, and the walls were a warm cream color. Through the doorway he could see a great vast open area encompassing kitchen, dining room, and sitting room, the exposed rafters and the high ceiling creating an airy, welcoming space that Herod was certain was an absolute bitch to heat in the winter.

The furniture of the living room was solid, heavy, and masculine: a huge, plush leather sofa facing the large fireplace, four gargantuan darkly-upholstered easy chairs, hand-carving decorating the end tables and fireplace mantelpiece, and big throw pillows tucked against the arms and backs of the seats. Small spotlights pointed at the ceiling and diffused their glow, along with hanging lamps, almost like chandeliers, dangling from above. The sitting area was open to the kitchen, a wide, appealing space with pale green cabinetry and clean white appliances.

The air smelled of ginger and molasses. Fragrant, beautiful scents, a world away from flesh and wine.

The walls were bereft of paintings and sparsely decorated with heavy-framed maps of the country and state, architectural sketches, and black-and-white photos of buildings and people, almost certainly from the Pottsfields of the past. The windows were clean, the curtains drawn back entirely.

Anyone could see in. Anyone could see anything.

The first thing to catch his eye after this cursory sweep was the spray of beautiful flowers on the dining room table. He turned his head quickly, checking the fireplace. Perhaps he could cast the blossoms into perdition’s flames and hope Enoch hadn’t seen them.

The grate was cold and empty.

Damn it.

“Can I get you a drink?” Enoch asked, leaving him with a brush of the hand across his shoulder blades when they reached one of the barstools pulled up to the kitchen island.

“Please.” Cyanide would not be turned away. He supposed he might as well get it over with. He held up the flowers. “I couldn’t get out to the shop, I’m sorry to say, but I thought perhaps I’d bring you something you can’t get anywhere else.”

Enoch turned to face him with the wine glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other. His handsome face went blank with apparent surprise at the sight of the flowers, and Herod regretted yet again the lack of a fire.

“I see you’ve already got an arrangement,” Herod said, nodding towards the dining table. “I apologize. I should’ve put a little more thought into this.”

“No,” Enoch replied, hastily putting down the glasses and reaching for the bouquet. Herod watched with some suspicion how Enoch did not shudder to brush Herod’s gloved hand, although he certainly had more cause than anyone else to do so. Perhaps he felt he was proving some charitable point with his lack of revulsion. “Not at all. They’re beautiful, Beast. These come from your own garden?”

“Of course.” He watched Enoch lift the bouquet to his nose and inhale, a smile widened on his lips.

“They’re exquisite,” Enoch murmured. “I’m delighted, Beast, thank you. I’ll be the envy of the garden club. They’ll be asking me where I got them.”

Herod smiled behind his mask and murmured a pleased demurring sound.

“Let me put them in a vase and I’ll give you the cook’s tour before I get the hors d'oeuvres.”

The cook’s tour was short and sweet--there was little of the first level that he hadn’t seen upon entering the front door, except Enoch’s home office. The library upstairs was a pleasant revelation, but the real surprise was in the master bedroom: a framed reproduction of The Garden of Earthly Delights hung across from the large, soft-looking bed.

He smiled to himself as he saw it. What a commentary, to put that earthly paradise so close to one's bed!  And poor Miss Clara! The panel depicting hell must give her nightmares, but perhaps that was the point. Enoch was a strategic sort, after all. What would incline one to cuddle up to one’s large, warm, powerful lover more quickly and intensely than the sight of those horrid images leering at one in the small hours of the morning?

“Your home is beautiful,” he remarked on the way back down to the kitchen. He knew what this was about. There was no way he’d get out of giving a reciprocal tour next week. Damn it.

“Oh, thank you.” 

“I trust it is not the mayor’s residence?”

“No, no, just my own little castle. Do you have any shellfish allergies?” Enoch asked, waving him to a seat at the kitchen island.

“I do not. Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”

“Of course!”

He escaped to the powder room and stood there with the lights off for a few long moments, running the water in the dark. Ah, yes, Enoch’s water heater would work, wouldn’t it? He quickly pulled off his gloves and ran his hands under the faucet, sighing as the warmth soothed the ache just a bit. He’d almost forgotten how good that could feel. Just imagine the pleasure of feeling it everywhere, steaming water coursing down the rest of his skin, opening up tangled gnarls of muscle…

He shifted his hand and the water fell on a dead patch. Nothing.

It didn’t matter. Pleasure was rare enough that he’d take it in scraps if he had to.

He reached up with a dripping hand and pulled off his silver mask. He stood for an instant in a lightless bathroom not his own, far more vulnerable in his clothing and maskless than if he’d been naked but for the silver face and gloves. He reached out and filled his hands with warm water, lifting them to his face and shuddering at the sensation. It had been so long.

He drew the folded veil out of his breast pocket and snapped it a few times, trying to rid it of any wrinkles, and pulled his golden mask from his jacket pocket. Only when he had them roughly fixed in place did he turn on the lights and perform a few final adjustments to make sure he was concealed. The gloves went on shortly after.

There. He had to admit it was going well, all things considered. It wasn’t an exercise in unrelenting humiliation, not yet.

He stepped back out into the main rooms, silver mask tucked securely back in his jacket. He felt his eyebrows bob upward that the beautifully-plated vision before him.

“What,” he said, his own unease momentarily forgotten in the wake of astonished delight, “on earth are those?”

Enoch gave him a sly grin. “Blood clams, I’ve heard them called. I suppose they don’t tend to please the local palate--there was a special at the meat market, and when I saw them I thought of you.”

Oh, like fun there was a special. Pottsfield was landlocked.

Not that he was looking a gift mollusk in the mouth.

Herod grinned behind his veil. “They’re beautiful. I confess I’m a little surprised you think me so bloodthirsty--”

“Said the man who made a living singing about murder.”

“But I’m delighted nevertheless.” He reached for one, paused, and looked at Enoch. “May I?”

“That’s what they’re there for,” Enoch replied, placing a glass of wine at his hand.

Herod eagerly took one of the ghastly little delicacies and examined it. A tiny sea of red fluid washed the white chunks and mottled brown flesh of the raw meat, the tiny creature flayed and cold from its bed of ice.

He slipped it beneath his veil and inhaled its fragrance before he ate it, perhaps with slightly more of a slurp than was necessary. The iron tang of hemoglobin burst on his tongue and he smiled, delighted by the familiar taste of blood around the crisp, cold succulence of the meat. He swallowed and brought the shell back to deftly lick the inside clean, before placing the shell on the table and reaching for his wineglass.

“They’re heavenly,” he said to Enoch, who had paused in his own evaluation of the mollusk to watch Herod eat. “Such a treat.”

Enoch smiled at him and ate his own clam with a discreet little suck and swallow. Herod took a second and then a third, reducing the contents of his glass by almost a third before he remembered that they should be waiting.

“When does Miss Clara get off of work?” he asked, rubbing an index finger along the stem of the wine glass.

Enoch ate his second clam and leaned on the counter, lifting his eyebrows. “Oh, ages ago. About five o’clock.”

“Hm. I hope nothing is keeping her.”

Enoch gave him a confused little smile. “From what?”

“Enoch,” Herod said. “Don’t be coy. I’m not a voter. It hardly matters to me from what source you derive your lady-friends.”

Enoch’s eyebrows rose and he flicked a hand onto his chest in a gesture of most theatrical offense. “Beast. Do I really seem like the sort of man to fraternize with my staff?”

“I suppose I only thought you were close,” he said slowly.

“Close we are! But not that close. She’ll surely laugh when I tell her you thought so. Whatever gave you that idea, my friend?”

“I’m...not sure, precisely.” Herod tilted his head and fingered his wine glass, a little embarrassed to be caught with such a firm, false assumption. “You do talk about her so very glowingly.”

Enoch grinned around the next clam shell. “You should hear some of the things I say about you,” he replied, watching Herod with those lovely eyes, full cheeks hollowing slightly as he drank in the helpless little creature.

If Herod felt a little flush, it was surely because of the extra iron in his system.

“Drink up,” Enoch encouraged him.

Dinner was a salad, sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, and a truly excellent pan-seared chicken, cooked in a bacon, white wine, and mustard sauce. Perhaps choice of meat was a little pedestrian, but the French influences in the dish could not be missed and he had a second helping before his natural reticence could restrain his enthusiasm. Enoch was a good cook, and Herod knew what fresh meat tasted like. He had no doubt that the creature had been killed that very morning and he nearly purred into his wine glass over the tenderness of its flesh. Meat in the traditional sense had long been too expensive for him to buy from the shops with anything with regularity. It was a treat.

They ate dinner at the table with the bay window overlooking the backyard. The vegetable garden was particularly handsome, but Herod could hardly pay attention to such things when he was so surrounded by windows. In a move that surprised him some, Enoch watched him for a few moments before rising to draw the curtains behind him and across his portion of the bay, keeping up all the while an apparently unthinking but highly detailed rendering of the news of the town.

He gave Enoch a grateful look, not that Enoch could see his smile. Enoch seemed not to notice--probably ignoring it. 

Sometimes he forgot just how observant Enoch was. It wasn’t everyone who could read Herod’s body language so well. He’d be wise to remember that Enoch had that intensely political temperament and appetite, no matter how he chose to satisfy it with such a relatively small fare as Pottsfield. So far he had the wool entirely over the man’s eyes, but it wouldn’t do to get complacent.

He offered to help with the dishes, only to be half-shoved out onto the back porch in the company of a pair of cigars and a few fingers of remarkably good scotch. Enoch seemed determined to spoil him, whether he knew he was doing it or not. It was a little embarrassing to be treated to such delicacies as he knew he could not himself afford in return, but his own mild mortification was not too steep a price to pay for a single evening’s indulgence in such pleasures. Pride had gotten him into this, after all. He wouldn’t let it ruin its own bittersweet fruits.

He took a seat on one of the Adirondack chairs, slid back much farther than he’d intended to, and wound up half-reclining with his legs stuck out in front of him.

No wonder Enoch liked these things. They were a persuader’s dream. It was hard to be defensive or on one’s guard when one’s very chair was both impossible to get out of and impossible to sit rigid in.

Enoch himself took up a seat on the porch swing and set one ankle on the opposite knee, leaning back with both expansive arms settled on the head of the hanging bench. He took one of the cigars, snipped it, and lit it, sucking gently for a few moments to ensure a solid light before passing it to Herod. Herod nodded his head in thanks and took it.

He wrapped what was left of his lips around the cigar end and dragged the smoke in, feeling his cheeks hollowing and jaw shifting beneath his skin. His lips puckered to hold it as tight as he could, unwilling to give way while he had it in his mouth. When his mouth and throat were full, he took the cigar away and held the smoke in with his mouth open for a few instants before breathing it back out in a plume that caught in his veil. He sighed and let himself sit back more voluntarily, the fragrance heady, the nicotine working its way into his bloodstream.

Delectable. There was nothing like abject poverty to rid one of one’s more detrimental vices, and even though he’d been very careful of his throat and mouth when he was still performing, this was a dirty little habit he’d missed.

“I’m afraid you’re your own hotbox, friend,” Enoch observed in a smile. He held his cigar in his teeth, because of course he did.

Herod smiled. Who else would dare offer any kind of commentary on his state?

“An unexpected perk of the outfit,” he replied. He briefly considered asking Enoch to douse the light so he could swap masks, but it was either navigate the veil or risk showing his chin or blowing smoke out of his eye holes.

That got old remarkably fast.

“If you faint, you have to tell me.”

“Yes, I’ll work on that.”

They sat in silent contemplation of the fireflies in the backyard for a long, sweet time. He almost felt as if he was finally relaxing. Whether that was the nicotine or the alcohol or the pleasure of food, he honestly couldn’t speculate.

“Tell me about Lorna.”

Herod glanced up at his host. Enoch was growing lost in the spreading gloaming, all but the bright cherry of his cigar fading into the night.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Herod said in answer. “Young. Very young.”

“Twenty five?”

“Eighteen.”

“Zounds.”

“Pretty. Extremely pretty, and mild-tempered. Very smart, but not what I would call particularly brilliant.”

“Your standards are high for that kind of thing.”

“Let me say, then, that she has a great deal of cunning, which is its own kind of genius. She is eccentrically educated, I believe at home and with private tutors--she's not so much a chemist as an alchemist, as fits anyone who talks about aqua fortis with all possible earnestness. Fond of Hawthorne.” He took a drag on the cigar. “She hugs.”

It was terrifying. At first he was sure she was coming in for a close-quarters attack, but then she just wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed, apparently just happy to have the physical contact. His hands had fluttered stupidly for a while before settling on her shoulders.

But once one got over the initial heart-stammering panic, it was nearly pleasant.

“You said she was sickly?”

“Yes, I believe it is some kind of immunity disorder,” Herod mused. He took another long pull of his cigar. It wasn’t polite to use terms like Renfield’s Syndrome and psychopathic personality disorder behind someone’s back. “Poor thing is terribly slight and susceptible to illness.”

“Dear me.”

“Would you care to meet her?” he asked. “I should be glad to invite her to supper on Friday.”

Enoch puffed on his cigar a few times, in apparent contemplation. “If that should please you, dear, I have no objection whatsoever,” he said slowly. “Would it be any fun for her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing really. I just did the math. We’re both old enough to be her father. Would it be any kind of entertainment for her, two old men chatting for hours?”

Herod tilted his head in the way he’d found was most effective for communicating skepticism. “Old we may be, Mayor Barnes, but I think we might have just a little life running in us just yet,” he replied. “Unless, of course, this is a discreet way for you to tell me you don’t particularly find our evenings stimulating.”

“On the contrary! I forget everything--time, itself, when we’re together,” Enoch replied. “If you think we can keep the young lady amused, then I am all enthusiasm for the idea.”

Herod nodded. “There’s quite a bit she can learn from her seasoned elders,” he teased, “and perhaps we can just manage to convey it before the worms have their ways with our broken old bodies.”

“I somehow sense I’ve hit a nerve.”

“I’m only forty seven, thank you very much.”

Enoch gave him a look. In the diffuse light from the living room windows, his eyes simply sparkled. Whose eyes actually sparkled, for heaven’s sake? If she wasn’t capitalizing on her proximity to the man, he had to wonder what on earth was Miss Clara thought she was doing.

“I’m forty-five,” Enoch replied. “And you were most certainly not twenty-six in 1994.”

“You can’t know that.” Herod grinned to himself.

“Fine. I won’t press you. Gentlemen don’t talk about age or weight.”

“Not unless it’s in regard to antiques or pounds, sterling, no.”

“You could open an etiquette school.”

He found himself laughing.

Their cigars were long cold in the ashtray and the sky was black as pitch when the magnitude of the situation impressed itself upon Herod’s consciousness.

The Groundskeeper had _left him._ He had no idea if the man owned a mobile phone, or what the number for that mobile phone would be.

Lorna had given him her phone number. He couldn’t call her. It was almost an hour’s drive out here and her aunt would never condone it, not for him or at this time of night. And even if she came, how weak, how hideously dangerous...

He had his wallet and the emergency twenty dollars he’d managed to hold onto from his budget. It would never be enough cab fare, and he really didn’t think that buses in Pottsfield ran this late at night.

It was a forty mile walk. He’d never manage it.

It was a blessing to be masked, sometimes. Enoch couldn’t see the horrified realization dawning upon him, even as the local magistrate continued on with what was actually an objectively fascinating analysis of the role of Von Rothbart in Swan Lake.

“I hate to cut the evening short,” he said, his appetite for conversation gone, “but I’m afraid it’s about time I got on my way.”

“Of course,” Enoch replied. “My goodness, must be almost ten.”

“Yes.”

“Drat, we never even got to dessert. Can I send you home with any of dinner?”

He gnawed on his tongue for a moment or two. “...perhaps you would be so good as to let me take a look at your bus schedule, first.”

Enoch stared at him and Herod wanted to cut his lovely eyes out. “I thought you drove down.”

“No.”

“Well, that does make for a little problem. I’m sorry, Beast, but the buses don’t run this late in town.”

The muscle in Herod’s jaw twinged and twinged again. “I see.”

Enoch’s smile grew slowly and he leaned forward to put his hand on Herod’s knee.

He about jumped out of his skin. Enoch’s palm was hot through the thin fabric covering his skin. He must feel like a gnarled little skeleton in comparison with the plush warmth of Enoch’s hand.

“Tell you what,” Enoch said in a low voice, almost a croon. “If you’ll stay a little longer, we’ll have dessert and a cup of coffee and then I’ll drive you home.”

He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to need it. He didn’t want to have no other option.

He looked up and stared Enoch in the eye. “Thank you,” he said, trying his damnedest not to sound meek.

Enoch grinned at him, gave his knee a squeeze, and rose up from the bench. He offered a hand down to Herod. “Here, I hate getting out of those things on my own. Come on inside.”

Herod hesitated just for a moment before reaching out and taking the hand. Enoch’s huge hand would’ve dwarfed his even if he’d had all his digits, but if there had been any missing the size difference before, there was no chance of it now. Still a little surprised that Enoch was forcing himself to touch him, Herod almost missed the gentleness that accompanied the raw strength pulling him to his feet, as if he weighed nothing at all.

Almost.

Dessert was a strawberry Brown Betty with extremely fresh whipped cream, and it was a miracle of good breeding that he didn’t make any attempts at licking the plate after he’d finished. The coffee was fragrant and delicious, and he wondered how he’ll ever go back to his own dreck in the morning, with this lingering on his palate.

Enoch smiled across the table as him as he set his fork down and sat back to drink his decaf.

“Did you really take the bus?” Enoch asked, licking away a small bit of whipped cream from the corner of his mouth. Herod watched it go, warm and content but oddly hungry, before the question registered.

He grimaced and crossed his legs. He hadn’t wanted to give any more information than was necessary. “The Groundskeeper drove me. I...he...I neglected to make return plans with him.”

“Ah,” Enoch said, not even bothering to hide his grin.

Herod scowled. “I’m extremely embarrassed. I apologize for imposing upon your hospitality.”

Enoch’s eyebrows bounced up and he shook his head. “Oh, no, no! Not at all. No imposition. It’s my pleasure.”

He just bet it was. Herod wasn’t fooled. Enoch had a schadenfreudig sadistic streak as deep and as strong as the Hudson and no amount of folksy gentlemanliness could hide it. What pleasure there was to be had from seeing Herod so completely out of place and so terribly vulnerable, he really couldn’t speculate; yet despite it all, he was actually fairly sure that Enoch genuinely enjoyed his company, his amusingly humiliated state aside.

Herod addressed himself to studying the bouquet he’d brought with him. The roses looked too tightly coiled in this open, airy house, each peony a gaping, infected wound, each carnation a ragged scrap of tattered meat, each lily an open-throated scream.

His flowers belonged in his house, his mausoleum. Not here, where there was light and loveliness and sweet, plush satisfaction at every turn. This was a place for daisies, for daffodils, for fleshy magnolias and honeysuckles dripping with nectar.

“You’re very kind,” he said thinly.

“Let me pack you up some dinner.”

Heap it on.

He changed masks in the bathroom while Enoch made him a parcel. On their way out the door, Enoch paused, bag of food in one hand and the house keys in the other, and looked at Herod.

“You know, Beast,” Enoch said, “it is pretty late, and I do have an extra guest bedroom. I don’t suppose you’d like to stay the night, and I can take you home in the morning?”

Oh.

That was unexpected, actually. It was one thing, to be called in for an evening’s entertainment, but quite another to be actually offered the comforts of the house. Was this guilt? An attempt at justifying the nastier urges that had gone into Herod’s invitation to Enoch’s table?

He considered it for longer than he should. To stay the night in a cool, quiet bedroom, good solid windows and firm roof above his head. Yes, sleeping in a bed that did not belong to him was a slightly uncomfortable idea, but the mattress would surely be leagues superior to his own, to say nothing of the linens. If he could beat down his nerves, he would sleep better than he had in years, he was certain. And--oh God, imagine--when he woke, the very first thing he’d do after writhing about in the bedclothes was take a hot shower, without the least need of bracing himself, and he’d luxuriate in the hot steam and sweet slickness, enjoying the tart sharpness of whatever soap it was that Enoch bought...

Ah, but then he’d have to come downstairs and be seen in the full light of morning. He was well-dressed enough in sympathetic twilight and under the glow of midnight, but eight AM had no mercy.

And there was Turtle to be considered.

“Thank you very much,” he said sincerely, “but I’m afraid I really should be home tonight if I can manage it. The dog--”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Enoch said, quickly locking the door.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No! Not at all. Perhaps next time.”

Herod smiled rather wistfully before he caught himself. How sweet.

Enoch opened the passenger’s seat door for him and he smiled a little at the gesture. Mother Barnes had raised a gentleman, all other considerations aside.

They passed out of sweetly sleeping Pottsfield and started down the lightless country highway towards the city. It reminded him of a horror story, one of the urban legends he’d grown up hearing.

“Did you ever hear that old story about the Char Man?” he asked Enoch. His voice came out more whimsical than he’d intended. Perhaps that was appropriate, for such a flight of fancy.

“I don’t think I have.”

“It’s very gory.”

“Then I must hear it,” Enoch said. When Herod looked at him, he saw that the man was grinning.

Herod settled back in his seat and took a deep breath, getting comfortable. He began telling the tale in a low, thinking tone, watching the corn whip by.

When he reached the end--the bit where the hapless, randy teenagers find the skinless corpses of their friends and guardians--Enoch shuddered flatteringly. Herod smiled to himself. He wasn’t expecting a simple ghost story to spook a grown man.

Enoch’s voice was just a little rough. “Next time you tell a story like that, I’m going to record you.”

“Why on earth…?”

“You could make a mint,” Enoch teased, clearing his throat.

“Nonsense.”

“I’d pay.”

Herod laughed softly. “To read you a bedtime story?”

“Mmmm,” Enoch murmured, shifting a little in his seat. “Beast, it’s a good thing you never had any little ones. That is nobody’s idea of a soothing little fairy tale.”

He chuckled softly in the dark. “I could tell you the one about the abused scarecrow.”

“It involves more skinning, doesn’t it?”

“...it doesn’t involve less skinning.”

“Right. Please, proceed.”

He told the one about the abused scarecrow and he thought Enoch actually stopped breathing for a while. The shuddery exhale beside him at the end of the story made him grin behind his mask.

It carried them most of the rest of the way to the city, and from then on they talked quietly about urban legends until Enoch pulled up to 6 Edel Avenue.

“Thank you very much, Enoch,” Herod said, unbuckling his seat belt. Enoch mimicked him. “Can I invite you in for a cup of coffee?”

Enoch paused and gave him a queer little smile. “Oh, no, thank you. Thanks to your little ghost story, I might be up all night as it is.”

“Well, then, I’ll say good night.”

“Just a moment.” Enoch stepped out of the car and came around to Herod’s side, opening his door for him. Herod gave him a bemused look that was almost certainly lost on the good magistrate, and levered himself out of the vehicle.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make sure you get in before I head back. Good night, Beast.”

Another hug, one that made his spine creak, and then he found himself set on his feet with a small bag full of food. “Ah. Yes. Good night.”

With a swift backwards glance, he disappeared around the side yard and up the back, listening carefully for any disturbances. The locks on the door were all secure, and he undid them one by one. Turtle wagged to see him and hurried outside to perform his necessaries while Herod glided through his dark house, opened the curtains of the music room, and turned on the light.

Outside, the headlamps on Enoch’s car illuminated the street before him, and he pulled away as smoothly and silently as a shark moving through the dark deeps.

Herod watched him go. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the evening, but he was surprised by how little that disturbed him.

***

Miss Clara demanded a play-by-play first thing Monday morning, but Enoch refused to outline the evening in anything but broad strokes. She didn’t need to know in fine detail just how delightful Beast had been, how graceful and charming and perfectly at ease he’d been in Enoch’s home, how absolutely edible the man was when he was murmuring horror stories in the dark.

God. He’d been fit to embarrass himself that night.

He’d left one of his carving knives in the bundle of food he’d sent Beast home with, wanting just this pretext to call him, and now, at four pm on Monday, he was finally free enough to make the call.

The phone rang three times and an unfamiliar voice picked up.

“H-Hello?”

Enoch frowned to himself. “Hello. Is this Miss Lorna?”

“No.” The voice sounded young, much more like a child than the young woman Beast had described as his new friend. “I’m Billy.”

Enoch sits up a little straighter in the chair. What was going on here? “Are you a child?”

“Yes,” Billy said. His little voice is high and tight with fear. “Mister, can you help me? I’m in the old man’s house but it’s so dark I can’t see, and...and I’m really scared.”

His pulse hammered, sympathetic fear lighting up his spine. A child was lost in Beast’s house. How strange! Why was he there?

“All right, Billy...you say you’re in the old man’s house? Do you know where?”

“I...I think I’m in the basemen--” Billy stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper, panted in Enoch’s ear. “I think he’s on the steps. I think he’s listening!”

Enoch gnawed on the inside of his mouth, blood throbbing suddenly hard and heady, fear burning away under perverse lust. That lost little child, alone in the dark! And oh, God, if this was true--if his Beast was just standing there, waiting, lurking like a monster, listening to little gasping terrified breaths and licking his lips…

The phone clattered to the ground and Enoch jumped a mile.

“Billy?” he squawked. “Billy, are you there?”

“Not quite,” replied the panther’s purr on the other end of the line. “This is Herod Bethlehem speaking. How may I help you?”

Enoch sat back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Beast? I think you have a young visitor.”

“Ah, Enoch. I almost didn’t recognize you. Yes,” Beast sighed, dragging the word out into two syllables. “I found this young man skulking around in my basement. A rather juvenile prank, I’m afraid. I believe he was tasked by some of his school friends to retrieve some trophy from the haunted house.”

Enoch swallowed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I suppose you’ll have to start locking your doors again.”

“Yes, I think I will,” Beast said. “Now then. What can I do for you, Enoch?”

“I…” Why did he call again? Dread and arousal were addling his brains.

“Is this about your knife?” Beast offered. “Wustoff, very nice. I would want it back, too. I assure you I’ve kept it for you, safe and warm.”

Warm--

“Safe and sound?” Enoch corrected, keeping an eye on the door. If there was any mercy in the world, Miss Clara would not come by and see him like this.

“Wasn’t that what I said?” Beast crooned. “In any event, you need have no dread of it losing its edge in my custody. I’ll give it back to you on Friday, unless you’d prefer I mail it before then.”

There’s no way he’ll ever be able to keep that thing in his kitchen after this. It’ll have to go into the bedside table.

“Friday will be fine,” Enoch said, trying to get a grip. “Thank you, that puts my mind at ease. I wasn’t sure what happened to it.”

“Yes, the wine was flowing a bit that night, wasn’t it?”

Among other things.

“Perhaps just a bit.”

“Thank you again for a heavenly evening,” Beast said with just a whisper of irony. “I’ve been digging around in my books and I think I’ve found another bedtime story or two to read you.”

Beast couldn’t know that those trite, melodramatic things tingled his spine in a somewhat unconventional way, but he smiled nevertheless at the thought of Beast eager to terrify him. His dear friend was more than welcome to try his absolute hardest at that worthy goal.

Even under circumstances such as these, he found he liked it so very, very much.

“Excellent,” Enoch replied. “I look forward to it.”

“And I, as well.”

“Best luck with your security breach.”

“Oh yes,” Beast murmured, dragging out the ‘oh.’ “Let me throw this young person out on his ear. Au revoir, Enoch.”

He hung up, phone burning in his hands. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just listened to.

Worse yet, he wasn’t entirely sure he cared.

An idea was beginning to form in his mind, though it was of course ridiculous, the stuff of a lurid horror novel, impossible to fit into a real person’s real life.

And yet. It most certainly hadn’t been goat, or lamb, or veal that he’d been served, had it?

He licked his lips and got up from his desk chair, discreetly slipping away to the en suite bathroom just off from his office.


	6. Dining Room

“Hey Wirt?”

“Yeah, Greg?”

“Where’s Beatrice? Isn’t she supposed to be babysitting us?”

“Babysi--Greg, she’s not our babysitter.”

“She’s not? But Mom pays her for stuff, right?”

“Yeah, but she’s _your_ babysitter. Especially when I’m at SAT prep.”

“You don’t need lessons on how to sit, Wirt. You’ve got that one figured, believe me.”

“That isn’t--you know what, never mind. It’s Beatrice’s day off, and since I’m not doing stuff after school, I’m babysitting you today.”

“Oh. Okay, Wirt! Can we go look for frogs, like you promised we’d do months ago?”

“Uh…”

***

She heaped the last shovelful of dirt onto the wheelbarrow and ran a hand across her forehead, smearing a little dirt and dust into the sweat already beaded on her skin. It was a hot day, hotter than Auntie Whispers would want her to endure for the sake of the garden, but this was a special occasion.

“Uh, hey.”

She spun around to face the voice, placing herself between the barrow and the speaker and hastily tucking her hair behind her ears.

The redhead with tattoos was leaning on her fence. She raised her eyebrows and snapped her gum, looking Lorna up and down.

Lorna tucked her hair still more fiercely and tried to dust off the dirt on her face. It only smeared and she blushed in an agony of embarrassment.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Um,” the redhead said. She made it sound like a full sentence. She shifted her hips and the strap of her tank top fell down her shoulder.

Lorna tried not to leer at it. That would most definitely be wicked.

“You need some help with that?” the redhead asked.

“Oh! Um--”

“Only you look sort of tired,” the redhead said, eyes sliding from Lorna herself to contemplate the fruits of her labor. The freesias were beautiful at this time of year. Lorna wanted to be underneath them. “And it’s hot.”

“It is hot,” Lorna mumbled in inane agreement. “I’m just...taking this to a friend. Thank you, though.”

The redhead looked up at her again. She had a lip piercing. Lorna stared at it.

“So you’ve got it?” the redhead asked. “You sure?”

Lorna swallowed and pulled off her gloves. “No!” she said quickly. “I’m not sure at all. I’d love your help, please.”

She tacked on a smile at the end of the sentence, one that felt only a little bit desperate.

The redhead gave her a crooked little smirk. “All right then,” she said, rocking back on her heels and hiking her top strap back up with a thumb. “Where we going?”

“Just around the corner.” Lorna boosted the wheelbarrow and frowned as its contents shifted, gnawing on the inside of her lip for a moment before pushing it slowly onto the walk.

“Oh, hey, wait a second,” the redhead said. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to run home for something and then I’ll be right back.”

“Okay…? If I’m not in the yard, I’m just inside.” Lorna put the wheelbarrow down and watched the girl roll her board out into the street and take a running jump onto it, kicking off and flying down the street and around the corner.

Out of sight, Lorna raced into the house, kicking off her muddy shoes at the door as she barrelled down the hall and skidded past the powder room. She groaned at the sight of her dirty face and hair and threw a handful of water on her skin, drying it with toilet paper and hurrying into the kitchen. Milk, prune juice, buttermilk--lemonade! Perfect!

She slammed the refrigerator door, struggled back into her shoes, and hurried back outside. There, she tried to adopt an alluring post against the wheelbarrow before deciding to cut her losses and just sit on the stoop.

After a few minutes, the redhead came zooming down the street again, this time with a big blue tube slung over one shoulder. Lorna hopped to her feet and dusted off her skirt.

“Sorry,” the redhead said, bouncing off of her board and flicking open the gate. “Got bogged down on the way in--brothers, right?”

“Right,” Lorna said softly, fidgeting with her hair.

“This is what you need.” The redhead rolled the tube off her shoulder and shook it out, revealing a large tarp. “Sling that over your load and it’ll keep the dirt in.”

Lorna grinned, delighted. “That’s brilliant! Perfect! Here, let me just get a little twine--”

“Got you covered,” the redhead grinned, holding up a fistful of bungee cords, tipped with hooks.

“Wow, you think of everything,” Lorna smiled. “Here, let’s get this trussed up…”

They spread the tarp over the large pile of fresh, dark dirt and hooked the metal eyelets beneath the belly of the barrow, securing it tightly. Lorna pulled the barrow up and the dirt pressed against the tarp and could budge no farther.

“This is so much less stressful, thank you,” she said. “I need to get one of these.”

“Yeah, these are great. You could wrap a dead body up in one of these and nobody’d ever know,” the redhead said, holding the gate open for her. “And trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

Lorna stopped and looked at her. The crooked smile appeared on her lips and she stepped on the end of her skateboard.

“Brothers, right?” the redhead said, blowing a bubble with her gum.

Lorna smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “They sound like a handful,” she said, pushing the wheelbarrow again.

The redhead pushed off against street and cruised beside her. “Yeah, you could say that. Do you go to school nearby?”

“Oh, no,” Lorna replied. “I was homeschooled. You?”

“Yeah, I’m going to the community college across town,” the redhead said.

“You’re a scholar, then!” Lorna smiled.

The redhead snorted. “Something like that.”

They walked together in silence for a while, turning the corner and heading down the long street beside the graveyard of St. Dymphna’s.

“Oh!” Lorna said, suddenly realizing that they hadn’t been introduced. “I’m sorry--my name’s Lorna.” 

“Beatrice,” the redhead mumbled.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Please. I sound like somebody’s great aunt.”

“I’m serious! It’s lovely. And it could be worse.”

“Oh really?” Beatrice asked.

“You could be named after a cookie,” Lorna replied.

Beatrice threw her head back and laughed. “Okay, you’ve got a point.”

Lorna smiled to herself and pushed the barrow on.

“So where’s the friend we’re taking this to?” Beatrice asked.

“Just a few more blocks. He has a very nice garden, too, and I thought he could use a little fresh fertilizer.”

“Oh, cool.”

Lorna pressed her new friend for more information about what she was studying and Beatrice seemed reasonably happy to talk about veterinary science for a while as they strolled down the street.

Beatrice had just asked “So, what do you do?” when Lorna paused outside the hedges surrounding Herod’s house and caught her breath.

“Wait,” Beatrice said, squinting her eyes at the house. “Your friend lives here?”

“Yes,” Lorna said with a smile. “Come on. We’ll take this around the back so we don’t disturb the groundskeeper.”

“There’s a groundskeeper?”

Lorna led the way around the house, pausing under one of the front windows and cocking her head a little. She smiled and looked at Beatrice, who stood rubbing her arm and looking leerily up at the windows.

Lorna put a finger to her lips and pointed at the window, gesturing for her new friend to listen. Herod was working.

The windows were closed, but she could hear the slow, painstaking piano playing just well enough to pick out the tune. And above it, through it, around it...a voice.

She knew almost nothing about classical music and consequently even less about opera, but she knew when someone had a beautiful voice, and it was fun to hear her friend making use of the music she’d brought him. Back when Auntie Whispers had her going to piano lessons, she’d had a book full of advanced choral pieces, purchased in the expectation that she would grow into them.

In addition to all the other considerations that kept her housebound and away from such things as piano teachers, she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, so those dreams were soon lost. At least someone was making use of the music.

Beatrice frowned and tilted her head. “What is this?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Lorna replied. “Isn’t it lovely?”

Beatrice leaned slowly against the side of the house, budging a heel against the wall. “I always thought this place was abandoned.”

“Why, no! Of course not.”

“You've got some spooky friends, then,” Beatrice observed. “I’m all for a horror story but this is a little weird, the creepy music at this hour of the day.”

Lorna swayed a little where she stood. “I don’t think I understand,” she said with a slight frown.

“Isn’t this guy old as balls?”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “My auntie says he’s gone fifty.”

“He never comes out.”

“He’s a little shy. I’m happy to introduce you…”

Beatrice made a little face. Lorna smiled.

“Well,” Lorna said, “let me just drop all this off for him and you can come back with me. I owe you a glass of lemonade for your help!”

Beatrice smiled and they headed into the backyard proper. They unlashed the tarp from over the dirt mound and bound it up once more in the bungee cords. Lorna dusted off her hands and clasped them together, walking alongside her new friend as they headed out of the garden and back towards the street.

She hoped Herod could get her own tarp back to her sooner rather than later. They really did work wonderfully for wrapping up a dead body, or at least parts of it, but covering the whole thing up in so much mulch was rather tedious.

***

It was a nasty habit, he knew, but most days he ate his meals in the music room.

At least lunch, anyway. Breakfast he preferred to omit entirely, subsisting off of coffee until midday had his appetite sharpened to a razor edge. He liked to feel grateful to eat, to experience it as a relief of tension.

As a cure for a malady.

It’s what it was, after all. Dis-ease, eased; emptiness, filled; deprivation, satisfied. Meat digested within the body became the body. Blood became blood. And it was cleaner blood, the new stuff. Fresher. What was a transfusion, after all, but an infusion of fresh blood? How often had he watched the IV drips pulsing someone else’s bottled life into his veins and wondered who was within him, becoming him?

Now, at least, he knew.

Lorna had left him a lovely little picnic basket, however much he’d had to clean the meat once he’d discovered it. He would have to take the dear little lady aside and teach her how to butcher properly, but all the same a torso of this size and freshness was not something to turn his nose up at. Tender, sweet back flesh came straight from bone to pan, and in honor of the rare pleasure of a fresh midday meal he set himself a place at the dining room table and sat down with Hildegaard Von Bingen floating from the record player.

The first bite of the animal was always a delight. In that one mouthful was concentrated all the pleasure and vitality, for after all it was for that one bite’s sake this that the body no longer moved. He chewed slowly, grinding the flesh between his molars and letting the flavor linger on his tongue.

Barely salted, barely peppered, before it was tossed on the hot stove grill. At least some of the animal should be tasted just for its own flavor, he thought, if only so one could know precisely what it was they were eating while it was fresh. It savored something of pork, something of lamb, even. It tasted still more of death, of transgression and forbidden appetites. The best food fed the soul as well as the body, after all.

He cooked it rare, the way a steak should be. Just to warm it a little above what had been its living temperature and make it barely safe enough to eat. He was much too good a butcher to leave his meat in a puddle of blood, so it was bereft of the tang of hemoglobin. He almost missed it. (What a pleasure, to have that tang now associated with his dear friend’s sweet smile.)

He ate slowly, listening to his own quiet breathing and the sounds of Turtle in the living room, sleeping with the deep, gusty inhales of a relaxed animal. Now there was a diaphragm to envy.

His voice was reedy, at least to his ear. It was entirely his own fault. Lately he’d only sung for amusement, without the attention he owed to the art that was his former occupation. He’d have to do some of his old exercises, if he wanted to get back into that rich, plummy sound he’d had at his peak. If he could get back into it. The throat would be relatively easy to retrain, but his bellows…well, he didn’t have much of a diaphragm anymore.

He contemplated his plate. Nothing but flesh today. He’d have roughage with dinner--one of the lettuces looked ready--but for now he ate only meat. Perhaps it was time to try and introduce potatoes into his garden, something to bring him up to a slightly less emaciated weight.

He would never again be handsome, but perhaps he could do something to make sure there was just a bit more to him than bones and scars beneath his clothes.

Winter would be here soon, after all. It was going to be cold.

***

Well, the plot was thickening and no mistake.

Enoch had kept a very close eye on the police blotter in the days after his phone call to Beast, even going so far as to look up the neighborhood paper and look for any reports of missing children.

He found nothing and decided that Beast really must’ve just had a rambunctious, uninvited visitor.

It was both a relief and a disquieting disappointment. Of course his old friend wouldn’t harm a child! Couldn’t! All other considerations aside, he’d made it very clear that such a thing was physically impossible for a man in his fragile, rather humiliated condition. Beast had always been macabre in his artistic tastes, but that was meaningless. In his morals and ethics, Enoch had never known his friend to be anything but a good, law-abiding man of tender and even sweet-hearted sensibilities.

More to the point, however, was the knowledge that Enoch should not feel any disappointment in these thoughts. Panting and fondling himself over the tableau presented by an anonymous corpse or a battered, mutilated victim found states away was one thing. But far, far worse was his active excitement at the thought of someone he knew, a friend, performing such acts of cruel butchery and mangling…indeed, his active hope that such  was the case!

It was a transgression too far, he knew. He could be aroused by his beauties with a modicum of guilt, and aroused by Beast’s bewitching loveliness with a little more shame. But the two together, no. It was not just objectification at that point, but accusation as well. And even in his most clandestine and dirty moments, Enoch strove to be fair.

Such were the main points of the little talk he gave himself on the drive from Pottsfield to the city one Friday evening. For too long he’d given rein to his less than gentlemanly thoughts.  It was time he was separated, forcibly, if necessary, the two temptations between which he’d found himself so pleasurably dragged.

He was walking up the brick path to Beast’s door, mindful of little beyond his own little good-behavior pep talk, when a hand shot out and clutched at him arm, feebly pulling him to one side.

Enoch went along, curious, and found himself tucked away behind the ornamental Edelwoods that lined the walk, looking into the stern, concerned face of Beast’s groundskeeper.

“Good evening,” Enoch said, good breeding taking over in the peculiar advent of being manhandled by a fellow almost two feet shorter and two hundred pounds lighter than him. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve looked you up,” the groundskeeper said, adjusting his cap a little and casting a wary look towards the house. “You’re a mayor. A public figure, respected. Not some…”

The groundskeeper shook his head with a jerk and stopped the sentence cold.

Enoch watched him thoughtfully. “I am. You may call me Enoch. I don’t think I ever got your name, Mister…?”

The groundskeeper made a little sneer at that and frowned yet again. “My point is, you’ve been in and out and survived. He doesn’t dare touch you. You’re a good man, outside of all this, and he knows you’d be missed.”

Enoch’s eyebrows pressed together and he gave the groundskeeper a quizzical smile. “I thank you for the compliments, but...surviving? Touching me? I don’t think I’m understanding you.”

The groundskeeper darted another twitchy look over his shoulder and gripped Enoch’s arm tightly. He pulled himself close, wide and urgent eyes fixed unmoving on Enoch’s face.

“You’ve got to help her,” the groundskeeper said quietly. “There’s a girl inside, and she’s too weak to survive him. Her aunt is a good woman and loves her. You have to save her, if you are a good man.”

Enoch stared down at the strange little man before him and glanced up at the door of the house.

“Exactly what danger is she in?” he asked, wondering just what this man feared his employer was doing.

The groundskeeper gave him an angry look. “Murder,” he replied. “What he does with the bodies I don’t know--they’re not out in the garden.”

Enoch frowned severely. “Do you have any evidence to support this accusation?”

“Of course not. Would I be relying on your help if I had something I could take to the police?”

“He’s a friend of mine, you know.”

“Then you need new friends. Will you do anything to help the girl?”

Enoch heaved a low, slow sigh. “If there is anyone in any danger," he said, "I will make sure that no harm comes to them."

The groundskeeper emitted a shaky breath, patting his arm. “Good. Good. I’m going to go find the aunt.  He hasn't given me leave to go yet, so you'll have to draw his attention.  If you’re here, he won’t touch her, but he can't know I've left early or he’ll suspect.”

“Mm,” Enoch replied. “Let me go see what’s happening.”

“Be on your guard,” the groundskeeper said in a grim tone. “You’re more than a match for him, but he’s a clever monster. He’s not human. Don’t let the girl out of your sight.”

Enoch hummed once more and allowed a shudder to ripple up his spine as he turned away and advanced across the walk. He mounted the steps and tapped on the door, carefully counting backwards from ten. He got through it twice before the door opened.

A pretty, dark-haired young woman with a face as lovely and round as a clock’s answered the door. Her large dark eyes took him in and after a moment her pale little mouth curved in a smile.

“Good evening,” she said in a soft voice, the same he’d heard on the telephone almost two weeks ago. “You must be Mr. Barnes! My name is Lorna. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Good evening, Miss Lorna,” he said with a smile. Good manners to go with that sweet face. Quite a fetching creature. No wonder Beast was so taken with her. “Please, call me Enoch.”

She bobbed her head in acknowledgement and stood aside from the door to let him in. “Herod’s just in the sitting room--he’s detained by something rather important,” she said with a wry smile.

Enoch lifted his eyebrows and smiled, even as he closed the door behind him. Herod, was it? But my, my, she seemed very well for a child in mortal danger. Ah, perfidious, traitorous groundskeeper. What a fuss he made about nothing!

Well, the aunt would be summoned as soon as Beast turned his back on the man, and if Miss Lorna’s sweet manners hid a rebellious nature, she would soon be wrenched untimely from the bosom of Beast’s hospitality and it would just be they two left to laugh over the groundskeeper’s paranoia.

Enoch looked forward to it.

Lorna led the way into the sitting room. Beast himself was perched on the sadly-mutilated Louis Quinze sofa and across his lap sat the head and front paws of Turtle. The dog gnawed happily on a twist of rawhide held in Beast’s left hand, the other hand slowly stroking down the dog’s back.

“Enoch,” Beast said, with the sound of a smile in his voice. He gestured to himself and the mongrel sprawled across him. “I’m afraid my services were vitally required when you knocked on the door, as you can see.”

“Matters of capital importance. I understand entirely,” Enoch grinned, coming over to greet his friend. He leaned down and brushed his cheeks against either side of Beast’s silver mask, kissing the air just beside his covered ears. He reached out and patted Turtle on the head a few times before straightening up. “I don’t suppose there’s somewhere convenient I can put the wine…?”

Beast blinked at him. “Ah--”

“Here, let me,” Lorna said, appearing at Enoch’s side. “I was just about to get the appetizers, anyway.”

“I would be happy to--” Beast started.

“No, no, you’ve got your duties,” Lorna chirped. “I’ll be right back.”

“You will pour yourself a glass, won’t you?” Beast asked after her, as she rounded the doorway to the kitchen. He looked at Enoch, thumb and forefinger running two long lines down the dog’s spine, framing it. “I see she’s introduced herself.”

“She has,” Enoch confirmed, sitting down in the armchair slowly. “I see what you mean about her being young.”

Beast tilted his head slightly, as if he was looking at Enoch from under his eyebrows. “If you start that nonsense about us being decrepit again…”

“I learned my lesson last week.”

Beast nodded to himself, apparently satisfied. He patted the dog’s head twice and removed the rawhide from its reach, tossing it lightly to the floor. Turtle hurried after it, picked it up, and offered it hopefully to Enoch.

Enoch began scratching the mutt behind the ears and smiled at its wagging tail. “I’m sorry to report that you have a traitor in your midst, Beast.”

“Oh?”

“Your groundskeeper has informed me that you are a murderer.”

Beast sat back in his seat and sighed. “I wish I could say I’m surprised. I suppose he told you all about how I’m a child-killer? Perhaps he suggested that I tear off their flesh and eat it like some kind of ghastly wendigo?”

“Not quite. He confirmed that you didn’t have anyone tucked away under your rose bushes, at least.”

“A small mercy, to be certain! Still, how embarrassing. Please accept my apologies, Enoch, he’s on a tear today.”

“Oh, my. Am I not the first?”

“Indeed, no. Lorna, didn’t the groundskeeper warn you about my homicidal habits just as you were coming up the walk?”

The young woman had just come into the sitting room with a tray. She seemed very familiar with the household, and put a glass in Enoch’s hand with a smile before she sat down.

“Oh, no, not again,” Lorna sighed, taking up a seat beside Beast. “I’m sure he’s just a little confused, but it’s really a horrible thing to say, isn’t it?”

“What have you done to convince him you’re such a villain, Beast?” Enoch asked, sipping his wine.

Beast shook his head, putting his wineglass on the coffee table and slowly rising to his feet. “I must have missed a pay period at some point and earned his everlasting ire.”

“Perhaps he wants to keep you all to himself. Isolate you and make you easy pickings for his own bloody appetites,” Lorna teased.

“Perhaps so. But your hands are empty, my dear--did I not tell you to have a glass?” Beast asked, clasping his hands before him.

“I am nineteen,” the girl demurred, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Can you imagine the scandal if my auntie found out that you were plying me with drink?”

“Oh, have some Madeira, my dear,” Beast said. “Excuse me, I will be right back.”

Beast disappeared around the corner and Lorna turned to Enoch with a smile, brushing down the lap of her skirt.

“So,” she said, “why do you call him Beast?”

Enoch managed to get through only two tales of their misspent youth before Beast returned with his golden mask and an extra glass of wine.  Beast coyly denied everything, of course, but Lorna's eyes were bright with humor and she smiled at her friend with a radiant sweetness.

Shortly thereafter they moved into the dining room. Enoch sat at his usual seat at the head of the table, but now that they had a new member of their party, Beast had shifted the seating arrangement to place himself and Lorna closer to him.

The wine had been transferred to a decanter and placed on the table alongside the large silver platter holding the main dish: a long cylinder of beautiful, pale meat stood stuffed with spinach and mushrooms, cut into smooth slices and presented with segments of golden pears and red apples. The golden brown flesh was crackled and aromatic and Enoch smiled at the sight.

“As usual, your work is beautiful, Beast,” he said, as Lorna murmured a soft agreement.

Beast stood considering the roast with his carving fork and knife crossed in his arms, for a moment as ageless and strange as a masked pharaoh. He bowed just a little to the compliment and began to serve the cuts. “I cannot take all the credit, or indeed most of it. We owe the feast to Miss Lorna, who in surpassing kindness made me the gift of a veal loin.”

Enoch lifted his glass to the girl, who looked at him with a tremulous smile and the pupils of her large eyes blown wide in the candlelight. “Then you have my thanks as well, Lorna. This is a pleasure.”

“Not at all,” she said softly, as her small fingers traced along the handles of her knife and fork. “Besides, it’s too much credit. Any fool can bring home a little bacon, but Herod was the one who knew what to do with him.”

Enoch turned his head away. Well, she was amusing, then, and pleasingly meek, but not particularly charming or interesting. Not that that was a terrible thing. Not everyone could be fascinating, after all, but whatever she had besides simple human kindness to recommend herself to Beast’s peculiar affection was as yet still a deep mystery.

He leaned his head forward, extending his neck and closing his eyes as he inhaled the fragrance of the roast. Oh, hot pork fat figured in here somehow, to go with that luscious butter and garlic smell--

He heard the high-pitched grind of metal on metal less than an instant before the sharp gasp and a pair of thunks on the hollow dining table. Enoch’s eyes snapped open to see Beast’s arm stretched across his face, his elbow inches from Enoch’s nose. The other man was leaning over the table at a perilous angle, very nearly falling forward. Enoch followed the line of the man’s arm to his gloved hand, which clenched tightly around the handle of the carving fork.

Trapped between the tines was Lorna’s pointed dinner knife.

The girl herself was staring with wide, startled eyes, her hands covering her mouth.

Enoch sat back.

“You poor girl,” Beast crooned. Enoch glanced at his profile, at the way he seemed to be staring at Lorna. His voice sounded peculiar, its typical purr becoming something slick and satiny, cool and perfect and strangely inorganic. “Are you quite all right? What an awful mistake.”

“F-Fine, yes, sorry,” the girl breathed.

Beast blindly reached out with his other hand and placed it very lightly on Enoch’s shoulder, just the tips of his fingers touching his lapel. “That was very nearly a ghastly little mishap. You might’ve hurt Mr. Barnes very badly, if that knife had been any closer.”

“Yes,” Lorna squeaked. “I’m so sorry! It slipped out of my hand. Thank goodness you caught it!” She turned to Enoch with remorse writ large in her dark eyes. “Mr. Barnes, I’m so--”

“Oh, nothing to apologize for,” Enoch said with a smile, belying his racing heart. He reached out and patted the girl’s hand. “Just a little accident.”

Beast seemed to stare at the girl still, but he shifted, hand gliding away from Enoch’s chest. He pulled the fork out of the table with a little wrench, leaving behind two little tears like a snake bite in the weave of the tablecloth. Lorna hesitantly pulled away her knife with the tips of her fingers, looking terribly embarrassed.

Enoch knew what he had to do. In many ways he’d been training for just this kind of moment all his life.

“These sorts of accidents happen all the time,” he said, coming up with something to clear the air. “Why, I remember just the other week, Farmer Pearson, a gentleman with many decades’ experience behind him, very nearly had a horrific mishap with a pitchfork…”

The story lasted through Beast finishing with his serving tools and taking his seat, and quite a bit past that. By the time Enoch finished, the ice was broken. Lorna’s eyes were bright with sympathy but her mouth was spilling a guilty little laugh into her sleeve, helpless against the grim comedy innate in this kind of physical anecdote.

“Hideous,” Beast said in an approving tone, sounding much more like himself. “More wine?”

Beast had just tilted the bottle over the girl’s glass when there came a terrible hammering on the door.

Enoch heaved a sigh. Ah, yes. That was right.

Beast turned to face the far end of the dining room and rose from his seat, putting his napkin in chair. He clicked his tongue and Turtle sprang to his feet, coming closer to his master with a low, rumbling growl.

“Is everything all right?” Lorna asked, fingering her dinner knife anxiously.

“I’m sure it is,” Beast replied. “Please, excuse me.”

Their host glided through the room towards the foyer and Enoch sipped his wine, listening to the dog growl and the bolts on the front door slide back.

There was silence, a little bit of quiet conversation, and the noise of footsteps. Enoch rose to his feet to recognize the newcomers. Beast reappeared in the dining room, hands clasped lightly before him. Behind him, a huge woman with bulbous eyes and a lumpy, pink nose glared into the room.

Lorna’s hand snapped away from her wineglass and she stuffed the offending appendage in her lap.

“Lorna!” the woman snapped, her voice raspy and brittle.

Beside him, the girl went red. “Auntie,” she said weakly.

“Lorna, I--” the woman began, in high dudgeon. Beast moved smoothly between her and her niece.

“Lorna, I’m afraid your good aunt has need of you back home,” he said. “Perhaps we can try supper again another time.”

The woman behind Beast seethed. Obviously Lorna’s perfidy was nothing to sneer at, in the aunt’s case, but she seemed to spot Enoch and decide that Beast’s rapid discretion was favorable to humiliating the girl in public. She nodded her head.

“Come home, Lorna,” the aunt said. “We need to talk,” she added in a severe tone.

“Yes, auntie,” Lorna said, cowed. She bowed her head. “Thank you for dinner, Herod. Good night, Mr. Barnes.”

“Good night, Miss. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The girl walked out of the room with her aunt watching her every step, before the matron turned away herself. Beast gave Enoch a slightly sarcastic little head tilt and followed them out, and after a very, very few seconds of quiet conversation, he heard the door open and close and the bolts slide into place.

“Such a shame that they couldn’t stay for supper,” Beast said as he returned, his voice full of catty, artificial brightness. Enoch grinned helplessly, taking his seat as Beast waved his arm in graceful invitation.

“May I assume that I just witnessed the discovery of a young lady’s indiscretion?” he asked.

Beast took his seat and emitted a soft sigh.

“Yes, I believe you did,” Beast said. “Poor girl. It can be very hard to have a caregiver imposing this kind of tyrannical monopoly upon one’s free time.”

“So generous of you to provide her even a little safe harbor,” Enoch smiled, taking a bite of his dinner. “No wonder she’s taken with you.”

Beast waved a hand at him, huffing a little noise of humor. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Enoch.  I robbed your inner ghoul its deserts--that was the lady who discovered the young man in the graveyard."

"Oh, yes, you mentioned a niece..."

"Perhaps I will manage to have them both for dinner one night," Beast said. "You can quiz them on every nightmarish little detail."

"My birthday is coming," Enoch said in a contemplative tone, giving Beast a sly grin. "Now, what am I going to have to wager on to get you to sing for me again? I hear that piano music over the line a few weeks ago, and I'm getting rather anxious to hear more..."

Side by side they finished their dinners.

When he ate, Enoch chewed and swallowed slowly, savoring the meat and listening to his friend's voice.

Very odd, wasn’t it, that even the meals brought by Lorna had that distinctive, unusual taste. Under Beast’s hands it had become a delicacy, to be sure, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the meat had a sordid history.

He watched his sweet, dear friend slowly eat his supper, smiling quietly to himself.

They were going to have to have a talk.

***

“He is a friend, Lorna,” Herod said later. “And I am not willing to allow him to be injured.”

They were in the basement. Lorna had made another daring escape from her aunt’s home and was now sitting on the steps with her chin in her hands.

“I know, Herod. You weren’t exactly subtle about stopping me.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “But I’m sorry. Again. I should’ve asked. It’s just...his neck was right there, veins exposed, eye closed, so unguarded, and he looked _so_ tasty…”

Herod was drawing on the cement floor with a long stick tipped with chalk. He was of the opinion that it was a safer option than sketching new projects on paper, because it was easier to destroy the work and less expensive to use. Now he flicked the long utensil around in his hands, wedging the butt of stick on the floor, and leaned on it, looking at her.

“I know the havoc uncontrolled instinct wreaks,” he said slowly. “I am sympathetic to the struggle of subduing it, particularly when one is met with such profound temptation. But I am concerned by how readily you fell victim to your urges. All emotional considerations aside, he is a well-known man, Lorna. Imagine if you had succeeded.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “Well. It would have certainly implicated you.”

He waved a hand. “My welfare is the least of your worries, my dear child. Why, I’m your way out, truly. If you had succeeded here, I would’ve at the very least had to be impressed by your cunning in using me as your patsy.”

Lorna smiled shyly. “You’re sweet.”

Herod huffed, a little embarrassed. Lorna's smile grew the more.  Between this and the hugging, the man was really almost adorable.

“Think, now,” Herod said. “Imagine he had been in your home. How would you have managed it? There is little enough you could use to claim that he was attacking you--your lack of defensive wounds would own it, and there would be no defensive wounds, because you can only get him by trickery.  He's much too strong to fight any other way. Say you manage to cut his throat from behind or poison his wine and he dies without a sound, without any struggle. The man is four hundred pounds and almost six, perhaps seven, hands taller than you."

"Quite a stallion," Lorna murmured.

Beast nodded. "Precisely. How would you move him?”

Lorna wiggled her head in thought. “I could try to get him on a dolly. Or on something that I can slide down the steps.”

“Lorna, besides the fact that that would bruise his meat very badly, you can barely lift a sixty pound child,” Herod replied.

“Neither can you!”

“I beg your pardon, sixty five pounds is my cut off,” Herod sniffed. Lorna smiled at him and felt pretty confident that he was smiling back. “My point is that you would suddenly have four hundred pounds of dead weight and almost no means of moving it. If you can't get him out of the dining room in one piece, the best you could do would be to try and wedge him over into one of those great big plastic storage bins, on top of a tarp, and start cutting him into pieces. Then, once you can budge him, you’ll have to clean up and dispose of, bless me, nearly four gallons of blood, but I suppose that's really nothing particularly new, magnitude aside.”

“I get the idea,” Lorna grumbled.

“But much more importantly, how would you explain his disappearance? He’ll have scheduled your meeting; his secretary records every second of his day. His car would be seen in front of your house and would have to be removed. How do you rid yourself of it? How do you return from disposing of it?”

“Herod, I know, I--”

He flicked the chalk down and drew a long, certain line along his new design. “Very practically speaking, what would you use his meat for? There’s so much of it, and I am sure it is beautifully marbled, and it would be a sin, or worse than a sin, to waste even a mouthful. But you and I together could not eat all of him in a month of Sundays.”

Lorna sighed and leaned her head against the newel post, waiting for him to finish his tirade.

“And with all of these dangers, all of these perils that would stand in the way of an effective and humane hunt, why even attempt it?” Herod asked. “He’s infinitely more valuable with his heart beating than as a centerpiece. Heaven knows I’ve had my share of guests who were present only to round out the numbers at the table, but to have someone who can hold a conversation, who is pleased to be pleased, who contributes so much…” 

Lorna watched Herod move, drawing swiftly with his long stick, his loose sketches an extension of his angular figure and the harsh tension across his shoulders. White dust imbedded itself in his trouser hems and she found herself smiling just a little.

He grew silent, thoughtfully looking over his creation, and Lorna looped an arm around the newel post.

“It was just stupid instinct, but I’ll be more careful next time,” she promised. “I won’t touch him.”

Herod snapped off a little nod.

“Do you really trust him?” she asked softly.

He snorted. “Oh, he’s got no idea what I feed him,” he replied. “He’s a brilliant man, but not inclined to that kind of lurid fantasy. He suspects nothing, as far as that is concerned, I’m sure.”

“But do you trust him?” Lorna pushed.

Herod looked at her closely.

“Of course not,” he replied. He was lying. Lorna frowned quietly to herself. “But I haven’t needed to trust him.” He added a few lines to his sketch.

“What will you do if he becomes dangerous?” she asked.

Herod stepped gracefully around his sketch, contemplating it quietly. “Lorna, don't be absurd.  You know I will protect myself,” he said. “I would never harm him without the gravest necessity, but I will protect myself.”

She tapped her fingertips against the wooden post and smiled at him. Herod stood there, drumming his fingers against his stick and looking thoughtfully at the floor.

“I don’t like doing this kind of work,” he confessed, waving a hand at the sketch. “It’s not my oeuvre. And I feel like it’s just inviting unnecessary attention.”

“You don’t have to…”

“No, no, you might as well have someone watching your back while you run about,” he replied. “This way we're both covered when the policemen drop by.  And I’m happy to educate a young person’s artistic taste.”

Lorna rolled her eyes.

“I think it's tolerable,” he said of his sketch, at last. He tapped it with his stick twice. “Something of an aubade.”

Lorna got up from her seat and looked closely at his idea.

“No,” she hummed. “It needs more. There’s no symbolism.”

“Of course there is. I am an artist, dear, I know what I’m doing. Look, here, at the hands…”

“Herod, a hand reaching out for another hand is so full of meaning that it’s positively meaningless.”

“How very zen.”

“I’m serious! It could be God reaching out to grant knowledge, it could mean a futile cry for help, it could be a benediction or a curse, or even a mere accident caused by the wind…”

“That _is_ what makes it symbolism, my dear child.”

Lorna wrinkled her nose and took up her own stick of chalk, drawing a stick figure diagram off to the side. “Here, now; if you want an aubade, you have to  _make_ them lovers. Put the both arms up, helpless, ecstatic, and then another one here…”

“In the pelvis?” Herod asked, sounding amused. He covered his heart with a hand.

“And the same for this one. Yes. So: hurled away by the whirling of the world, we have two here who reach for each other from their hearts--”

“My precious creature, if that’s where you think the heart is I have done you a grave disservice in failing to instill in you good butchering habits--”

“It's got heaps of animal urge, pain and lust--positively satyrine priapism, but combined with the charged identity of the very-human handshake. That's where it becomes love. A longing for peace and connection, lost irreparably through the vagaries of fate.”

“And this is meant to be philosophical? To be art?”

“At the very least you have to admit that it's Shakespearean,” Lorna say, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“How so, he asked with grave trepidation.”

“They're reaching to touch from those arms.  It's Romeo and Juliet. Let lips do what hands do.”

Herod tilted his head and squinted at the proposed tableau. He stood in silent contemplation for many moments, drumming his fingers on his stick.

“Lips,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded to himself and crossed his arms, coming over to stand near where she squatted on the floor and look at her sketch from another angle.

“Is this about scissoring?” he asked at last, cocking a hip to one side.

Lorna felt herself flush red. “No!”

“Because all I’ve ever heard from most Sapphics is that it’s a very inconvenient method of, shall way say, ‘kissing.’”

“Herod!”

“You can do much better with garden-variety frottage, I’m willing to bet.”

“Herod, please!” Lorna cried, in an agony of embarrassment.

“And if you really do decide to try it--”

“It’s--I don’t--if I did, it’s just a fantasy--”

“I want you to make sure you’re doing it safely.”

“Stop!” she yelped aloud, covering her mouth with both hands. “It isn’t about--about--that! It’s just symbolic!”

“Oh, symbolism. So you're telling me that ripe young man of yours wasn’t just _loving_ that thick, hard horn down his throat?” Herod replied. He was grinning at her, Lorna realized, and even as she flushed completely crimson she felt a flutter of something very happy unfold in her chest.

"You’re a filthy old man!” she cried, and watched as Herod wiggled his head a bit at her.

“Come along,” he said, beckoning to her. “We’ll see if I have a pair of arms in my freezer suitable for your bawdy nonsense.”

Lorna huffed and followed him with a bright smile.

***

It really was a dirty little joke. In fact, when he opened it up at night, he almost laughed, as amused by the naughty implication as he was aroused by the grim content.  Very different from his usual fare!

A vacant lot was populated by two adult skeletons, tied to a pair of trees rooted about five feet apart. The arms seemed to clutch at the bark of the tree, a helpless extension of...ecstasy? Fear? Perhaps both.

Their skulls were covered with plain white pillowcases, as if the total lack of flesh didn’t make them anonymous enough, but protruding from each of their pelvises was an unskinned forearm and hand. The hands reached for each other across the gulf, one with its palm facing the earth, the other with its fingers curled like the icon of a saint.

Now, then. Who did this?

The presence of flesh and, really, the fact that it was bawdy at all, made him think of the young stag that had been left in the graveyard. Big and throbbing and fleshy, legs splayed wide, hips canted in a plea--the artist seemed to be just a little frustrated.  

Ah, but entangled in all that earthiness were those sleek, clean bones, that holy gesture of the reaching fingers, and that Magritte reference. Enoch could see his romantic, philosophical, understated Death moving in through the piece. 

Were they together, his artists? Or only inspired by one another?

Enoch zoomed in a little on the curled hand, a shiver tickling up his spine to see the ring and and little fingers curled in. Oh, it was just a benediction gesture, but all the same…

Distracted even from the pretty treat leering at him from his screen, Enoch sat back and thought only about lovely hands stabbing carving forks into tables and brushing feather-light over his chest.

***

The groundskeeper nodded at him when he walked up the steps Friday afternoon.  Enoch nodded back and took this to mean that he'd finally Arrived.

As Beast put the main course on the table, Enoch took his seat and looked at the empty chair by his left hand. “Miss Lorna couldn’t join us?”

“I’m afraid not,” Beast replied, as he sat down. “She was here in secret last time and I believe she has been put under house arrest by her aunt. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve kept the previous seating arrangement?”

“Not at all.” Enoch made a sympathetic face as he picked up his utensils. “Poor Miss Lorna.”

“I’m sure she is even now working upon her aunt’s good will and soon be a figure at my table once more,” Beast said, running his hands over the napkin in his lap.

Enoch nodded. “Well, I have to admit that I don’t mind too much. She’s a charming girl but I think I like it better when it’s just the two of us.”

The house was quiet and a little dim. They were already hip-deep in September and the nights were coming sooner than they had been. Enoch loved harvest-time and Halloween and would not be sad to feel the days grow cooler and watch the pumpkins ripen on the vines of his vegetable garden.

In the living room Beast had built a fire in honor of the oncoming season, and Enoch liked to listen to it crackling behind him. Turtle was asleep on the floor, snoring by the hearth, and all the world before Enoch was a lovely, cozy vista of perfect, eerie domesticity.

Beast had the table set with more of his flowers, spider flowers and rose mallows leaning in lush sprays out of their vase, the last of his thick, beautiful dark red roses standing like huge sweet wounds among the long, delicate filaments and open-mouthed radiance of the trumpet-shaped blossoms. Enoch had to wrangle an invitation to see that garden, one way or the other. He’d thought the tour of his own house would be enough to encourage Beast, but...perhaps he just needed to be straightforward.

That was the theme of the night, after all.

“Ah,” Beast murmured. “So all this time you’ve wanted to keep me for yourself, is that right?”

Enoch smiled at his friend. “Of course.”

Beast tilted his head at Enoch, somewhat sarcastically looking at him through his eyelashes. “I’m delighted to provide you with stimulating entertainment,” he crooned.

Enoch grinned and took a bite of his dinner. The meat was tender, braised with a sauce of coffee, diced tomatoes, and onion. Beast must have borrowed the coffee from his little friend, because it curled on Enoch’s palate like a sunbeam and burst and popped with sharp chili powder.

He made a little moan of a noise and smiled at Beast. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Beast lifted his wine glass in appreciation, bowing his head.

“May I ask what the meat is?”

“Lamb shank,” Beast replied, delicately cutting into his own portion.

Enoch eagerly took another bite and savored it slowly, letting himself sit with the knowledge of just what was in his mouth. He closed his eyes and smiled, chewing carefully, and had to shift in his seat as he reminded himself that it was not just anonymous meat, that Beast was serving him something much more rare, more precious, more forbidden. Adrenaline leaked into his bloodstream and he felt he must be flushed with delighted horror.

He swallowed, managed to restrain a shiver, and cleared his throat. “No.”

Beast paused in his meticulous dissection of meat from bone and looked at Enoch with some surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“It isn’t lamb,” Enoch replied. “I’ve eaten quite a lot of lamb in my time, even killed and butchered a few. This isn’t lamb.”

Beast stared at him for a moment or two before looking down at his own plate and prodding his dinner with his fork.

“Bless my soul,” Beast said, “you’re right. I must’ve confused the lamb shanks with the veal when I was digging about in the freezer this morning. Well, I think veal takes to the braising just as well. I apologize for the mix-up.”

Enoch smiled at him and had another bite, watching Beast’s fork disappear beneath his veil. It was so good, the flesh melting nearly in his mouth, tough muscle cooked to perfection over many long hours. This sort of thing fed the soul, a perfect dish for a starving man, a feast for an unhinged king, the only suitable sacrifice for a black-draped, beautiful plague god.

“No,” Enoch said again. “It isn’t veal, either. Nor pork, nor beef, nor rabbit, nor squirrel, and very certainly neither fowl nor poultry.”

Beast looked at him again. “Enoch, I--”

“It might,” Enoch said, cutting another bite and inhaling its fragrance with a smile. “It might, just possibly, be a tender little Billy goat…”

Beast leaned back in his seat and put down his utensils. When he spoke, his voice was that satiny, inorganic thing that had spoken to Lorna when Beast had caught her knife.

“You’re embarrassing me, Enoch,” Beast said softly.

“It’s not soy curd and it’s not fungi and it’s absolutely not tempeh,” Enoch said. “And all this time you’ve been serving it to me in secret. I think I’ve barely had one meal where everything was what you said it was.”

“I’m not sure you’re feeling entirely well,” Beast said, even more softly.

“Beast,” Enoch said, holding up his fork between them, “you’ve been feeding me human flesh.”

He held Beast’s colorless, reptilian eyes for many long moments. He put the fork in his mouth, set it back on his plate, and tried not to quiver as he watched Beast watch him eat the bite.

Beast looked away first and drew in a deep breath. His left hand rose to his chest and Enoch listened to the shuddery exhale that had Beast closing his eyes, just for a moment.

That lovely left hand then reached out and covered the back of Enoch’s right hand, fingers curling just slightly into the gap between his thumb and forefinger. Electrified, Enoch opened his hand wider and tilted it to encourage Beast’s touch. Beast took him up on it, sinking his two good fingers down to sit loosely along Enoch’s palm, the half of his ring finger bracketing Enoch's thumb as much as it could.

Beast looked at him again, pupils contracted, eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

Enoch nearly lifted his friend’s hand to his lips, ready to whisper his adoration against Beast’s sleeve and worship this exquisite, morbid, trusting creature, when the movement of Beast’s right hand caught his eye. Enoch watched, bewildered, as Beast slowly picked up his plate, held it out over the floor, and tilted it, dumping his dinner on the hardwood without once taking his eyes off of Enoch.

Enoch frowned, perplexed, and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong.

Beast moved like a viper. The china plate in his hand shattered against the side of Enoch’s forehead. Stunned, Enoch recoiled and felt Beast pin his hand to the table. Pain and shock tangled in his brain as Beast kicked away his dining chair, seized the heavy wrought-iron candelabra, dumped the still-burning candles into the dutch oven full of supper, and swung the sharp centerpiece at Enoch’s skull with blow that would’ve broken his head in.

Enoch managed to dodge the strike and pulled Beast against him, hoping to drag the man off balance. Beast twisted his bony little arm and snapped out of Enoch’s grip, lurching back before throwing himself bodily at Enoch. Enoch barely managed to grab Beast’s arm when the man hit him, all angles and bony joints ramming into his stomach, and spilled them onto the floor, Enoch still in his chair with his legs up.

Beast _growled_ above him and snapped his head out, seizing Enoch’s restraining arm with his mouth and digging a bite into him, through his veil. Enoch let out a cry of pain and instinctively released his grip as blood splurted from the wound. Beast brought the candelabra down, hard.

A miracle of impulse shifted Enoch’s head out of the way. Beast snarled and struck again, but this time Enoch grabbed his neck with one hand and his wrist with the other.

“This is difficult enough for me, Enoch,” Beast rasped, thrashing furiously in Enoch’s grasp, writhing against his lap. “Don’t make it worse!”

“Beast!”

“Just--die!” Beast snapped, dropping the candelabra over Enoch’s eyes. Enoch had to release his grip to bat it away, but it still caught him a slice across his scalp and made him hiss.

“Beast--”

Beast, weaponless, resorted to his hands, and sunk his bony fingers into the doughy flesh of Enoch’s neck, pressing down, hard.

Enoch grabbed his host by the throat and rolled them over, slamming Beast against the floor. Beast’s grip was lost and he grunted in pain, but soon he was tearing at Enoch’s face with gloved claws, trying to wriggle away.

Enoch hardened his grip around Beast’s neck and slammed him back again, his host's head making a hard crack against the floor.  He flinched from Beast's hands, trying not to lose an eyeball to those prying fingers, even as his blood dribbled over his eyebrow and down into his eye.

Beast made a desperate little choking sound, struggling for breath, and Enoch grabbed his arms at the wrists, holding them so tightly he thought he felt them creak beneath his fingers. He loosened his grip just enough to let Beast breathe.

“T-Turtle,” Beast hissed, “sic!”

The huge dog, awoken by the scuffle, bolted to its feet and raced into the room. There was no way Enoch could stop it--he pulled Beast up again, intending to give him another slam to put him down. The dog would surely bite him before he managed it, but he’d grab the animal and break its neck while it sunk its teeth in.

The dog charged up, whimpering loudly. It approached Enoch and bumped him with its nose, licking his face and whining anxiously. Then it turned from Enoch to Beast, and licked his mask across the temple and eyehole. It stood looking at them, mewling plaintively and wagging its tail in a nervous manner, before gently opening its mouth and ever so lightly putting its teeth against Enoch’s arm.

“Bite!” Beast commanded, wriggling desperately.

Turtle tightened his jaw just a little bit before letting go and licking a wet spot on Enoch’s sleeve, making his unwillingness loudly evident.

Beast stared at his pet, obviously appalled.  With that betrayal, the fight left Beast at last and he hung limp in Enoch’s hands, tension uncoiling in defeat.

He closed his eyes, made a soft little noise of despair, and lay there beneath Enoch, catching his breath. Those terrible eyes reopened and watched Enoch solemnly as the veil blew up and down and his chest jumped for air.

Enoch panted heavily, squinting out of his one unbloodied eye.

Beast had tried to kill him. Nearly succeeded, at that. His Beast thought he was enough of a danger to demand such drastic steps to move himself out of harm’s way. He would’ve choked Enoch’s life out with his bare hands, if Enoch hadn’t stopped him. Propelled by so much fear and so much certainty that Enoch would betray him and his nightmarish little secret, his Beast had been desperate enough to come for his blood with a dining room decoration.

It was almost enough to break his heart for his poor friend’s sake.

It was almost enough to make him come in his pants.

He watched as his blood dripped down from his head and landed on Beast’s upturned face, catching in drops on the golden mask. He could see on Beast’s veil where his blood stood out in the shape of two rows of teeth. Beneath his palm, Beast’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and panted and Enoch would swear he could feel the man’s pulse against his skin.

God. He was absolutely glorious. The most beautiful creature Enoch had ever seen.

“Beast,” he said. His voice came out in a ruined gasp. He took another deep breath and cleared his throat. This time, he sounded more like himself. “Beast. I won’t harm you.”

Beast wriggled in his grasp and Enoch reflexively tightened his grip on both wrists and throat. The bones creaked; the man hissed.

“Tell that to my concussion,” Beast croaked, ever so softly.

Enoch couldn’t help it: he giggled. Perhaps he was a little hysterical. “Beast, I swear. I won’t hurt you.”

“There’s nothing left for you to take,” Beast rasped. “I have no money. Why do you think I have to hunt for my meat? I cannot be blackmailed.”

Enoch’s heart creaked in his chest. Oh, his sweet friend... “I don’t want to do that, either.”

Beast narrowed his eyes at him, obviously doubting him. “Then what do you want?”

The words burned on the tip of Enoch’s tongue. A thousand silent sonnets jostled for position behind his teeth--if only Beast knew, he would never be consumed with this horrible conviction that Enoch wanted to use him so cruelly.

He swallowed the words down. Now was not the time, not when Beast was scared and at Enoch’s mercy and likely to doubt him no matter what he said. It would be tantamount to using Beast’s secrets against him, especially for what Enoch wanted. Truth would have to wait.

“I want what I have always wanted,” he replied in his most soothing tones. “To be your friend and trusted confidante.”

Beast snorted harshly and Enoch felt it against his palm.

“You want to watch me wriggle,” Beast hissed. “You’ve never fooled me, Enoch. I’ve always known what you are. You’re a sadist and you like to watch me like a sideshow freak.”

No! Like a figure in an art gallery, like a living euphonium, like a dream or nightmare come true--perhaps, Enoch would confess to himself, in his cruder moments, like a particularly delicious centerfold.

“Beast,” Enoch huffed, frustrated. “You are deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“How can I possibly misunderstand your intentions? Why else would you be here?”

“Because I find you charming,” Enoch said. “Your company is a pleasure. For goodness’ sake, Beast, you said it yourself--I never asked you about your mask or your gloves, not until you decided you needed to tell me. I admit I renewed our friendship out of curiosity at first, but only at first. I have continued to visit because I look forward to spending the time with you. You are so unlike everything else in my life and I crave your…” Oh dear. “...difference.”

Beast narrowed his eyes again. “Then I am still entertainment for you.”

“Just as much as and in precisely the same manner as I am for you, I sincerely hope,” Enoch acquiesced.

He looked down at his host and, after a moment, carefully released his neck and wrists. Beast’s eyes widened slightly and quickly narrowed once more, but he stayed down, arms sprawled above his head. The urge to try and kiss him was almost overwhelming.

“Perhaps a little less drama on my part and we could have avoided this little altercation,” Enoch admitted. “I let myself get carried away. I suppose I was just tired of watching you hide from me. I only wanted us to be honest with each other, as friends should be.” He heaved a sigh and ran one hand through the blood still oozing into his eye. “Do you think we cannot clean ourselves up a little and eat the rest of our dinner while we have this conversation? The shanks are truly excellent and if you don’t mind I would prefer not to spend the evening on the floor. It’ll kill my knees.”

Beast drew in a slow breath and stared at him. “You want to continue to eat what I’ve served you,” he said incredulously.

“Yes,” Enoch said, reaching for the corner of the dining room table and levering himself up. “Did you miss the part where I complimented you on it? Your food is always superb and I enjoy it enormously.”

He reached out and extended a hand to Beast, who still lay supine on the floor. Beast looked at him warily and slowly, slowly reached out to take his hand. Enoch pulled him up effortlessly and held him upright as he caught his balance, and then released him, letting his friend hastily retreat to whatever he considered to be a safe distance.  

The poor, startled dear.

Beast cleared his throat. “It's that way...the bathroom. You’ve been in the powder room before. Before you go...give me your phone.”

Enoch lifted his unbloodied eyebrow and smiled just a little bit at his host. “Of course,” he said, reaching into his pocket and passing Beast the device.

Beast held it in both hands and nodded. “Go.”

Enoch moved to the powder room and closed the door quickly behind him, lurching towards the toilet and hastily unbuttoning his fly. He sprang out, eager and ruddy, and slicked his palm with the blood pouring from Beast’s bite-- _Beast’s bite, oh God_ \--before groping himself to total hardness. Beast could well be listening at the unlocked door and already know all, but he couldn’t help himself if he’d tried.

If he stood just right he could see himself in the mirror, and God, he was a mess: a huge gash in his forehead, certain to need stitches, his blood clotting in his eyebrow, all over his right eye, down his chin, into his moustache…

He licked at the hairs and shuddered at the taste on his tongue, and worked himself mercilessly, cock throbbing as he recalled his Beast straddling his lap, wriggling against him, teeth in his skin, his beautiful friend fighting for his blood like an animal, like a monster, his darling underneath him and vulnerable, clawing at his eyes and aching with desperation and livid, focused, murderous intent--

He covered his mouth with his other hand, stifling his delirious groan as he ejaculated into the porcelain bowl and allowed himself to tremble for a few instants. Oh, he was dirty. Smeared with blood and pre-cum, panting for air, half-murdered and still with no guarantee of surviving this house--Beast might decide to drug him and chain him up in the basement, oh, God...--he stood with his fly open and his softening cock out and _craved_.

He caught his breath and set about cleaning himself up. He wiped himself clean and tucked himself away before he turned to his hands and his forehead. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to expose Beast’s bite and shuddered at the sight of it, forcing himself to think about baseball and Miss Elizabelle and anything that could keep him limp.

When he had most of the blood off and restored the use of his eye, he was both gratified and annoyed to see that the gash did not penetrate to the bone. He took up the dark purple hand-towel and pressed it gingerly against the wound, re-emerging from the bathroom and making for the dining room.

Enoch’s chair was upright once more and Beast was sitting at the table with a new plate and a new serving of supper. Turtle was licking the floor at his side.

Beast glanced up at Enoch when he came in and laid Enoch’s phone by his place-setting. He also picked up a large white box and put it beside the phone.  Beast's veil was still shiny with wet blood.  

“There is disinfectant in that box,” Beast said softly. “And when you’re finished I’ll see about putting something on the bigger wounds. I’m afraid you’ll still have to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, I guessed about as much. Thank you nevertheless,” Enoch said. He fished out a sterile gauze bandage and gingerly pressed it onto his scalp. “How’s your head?”

“I have vomited,” Beast reported. His voice was creaky. Enoch's hands had done that. “Whether that is bleeding or nerves I can’t say for certain.”

Touched by his candor, Enoch reached out and clasped the man’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with you for a while and keep an eye on you.”

Beast jumped at the touch but allowed him to hold it for a moment, before Enoch sat down.

“I will not kill you,” he said, as Enoch readdressed himself to his now luke-warm but still delicious supper. “If I had managed to do it cleanly with the first stroke, it might be another story, but from a strategic perspective you are simply too well-known and well-liked to disappear quietly.”

“Perks of the extroverted personality,” Enoch said with a smile.

Beast bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Unfortunately, you know a great deal more than I am comfortable with you knowing. I am in the extremely delicate position of having to rely upon your knowledge that there is no sport to be had in tormenting me and upon my own assumption that you will not be calling the police, whether out of a sense of this alleged camaraderie or out of simple indifference to the goings-on in my neighborhood.”

Enoch smiled at him. “I appreciate you trusting me with this, however reluctantly.”

“I have no other choice,” Beast replied. “But the same cannot, necessarily, be said of you. You hold my life in your hands and may do with it pretty much as you please. There is nothing I can do to stop you, nothing I can offer you to stay your hand if you decide that it is expedient for you to betray my secret.”

Enoch chewed and swallowed and had another bite. “Well, now, that’s not perfectly true. At this point I’m pretty clearly an accessory after the fact. Disposing of the body with relish, as you can see."

Beast watched him eat and slowly tilted his head.  "I can." He watched Enoch take another bite. "You...really like this, don't you?"

"I do. The exhilarating morbidity aside, you are an incredible chef. It's a pleasure to eat your food." Enoch watched Beast's eyes skate off of him and return to his own plate. Bashful? Oh, Beast...

"To return to the legal conversation," Enoch said, "I don’t particularly appear to be here against my will. You could most certainly name me as an accomplice. And even if one did make the assertion that you had me completely hoodwinked, having weekly candlelit dinners with a serial killer--and worse, never suspecting a thing--would not play to my advantage in the polls. Although I wouldn't necessarily be jailed, I would be ruined, too.”

Beast seemed a little surprised. “Ah. There is also that, I suppose.”

“I won’t disappoint you, Beast,” Enoch said gently.

Beast ran his finger along the spine of his knife.

They ate together in silence. When their plates were clean, Beast set his dish aside and picked up the first aid kit.

He produced a roll of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and reached out for Enoch’s bitten arm. He wetted the cotton ball and pressed it to the shallow but open marks left by his own teeth.

Enoch sat very still.

“I knew killing you would be a titanic feat and that I was very likely to fail in the attempt,” Beast said quietly. “I think we are both aware that you could have broken me with one hand.”

“Oh, now, give yourself more credit. You’re hard to stop when you’re determined. I would have definitely needed more than one hand…”

“In any event, dying by violence would be preferable to exposure, capture, and incarceration, at least in my opinion.  But you fought like a man careful not to injure his opponent.” Beast pressed still more disinfectant into the wound. “I find that very telling. When one wears kid gloves while fighting a man hell-bent on killing him, whatever their physical differences, it’s either a sign of pathological arrogance or a genuine desire _not_ to hurt his would-be assassin. If the former is the case, the arrogance may be indicative of something as extreme as an invulnerability delusion; if the latter, that desire may at best be a profound affection and concern and at worst a sentimental attachment that borders on the insane.”

Enoch smiled and watched the gauze wrap slowly around his arm, Beast's fingers brushing back and forth across the delicate skin, skating over muscles with every motion.  "So which is it?  Am I arrogant unto delusion or sentimental unto absurdity?"

“Oh, definitely both,” Beast hummed.

Enoch laughed.


	7. Parlor

Laura woke her up.

Lorna whimpered, blearily half-conscious as a bolt of razor agony pierced her belly and began shredding through her guts, stirring them around and tangling them together. She forced herself to roll onto her side and drew her legs up to protect her stomach, panting hard through her mouth. She started hyperventilating. She wouldn’t be able to hold it off.

The bucket was beside her bed and she just managed to pull it close before she started violently expelling her contents, her half-digested dinner and lunch splashing into the plastic tub. Tears leaked from her eyes and wisps of her hair stuck themselves to her sweaty forehead.

When she was finally done, stomach gurgling but empty, she shakily put the bucket down and spat in it. The pain was even worse now that she was empty, but at least she could move.

Laura was hungry.

Auntie Whispers had never told her about her mother’s death. Lorna didn’t understand why, not until one very uncomfortable Christmas dinner with Aunt Adelaide, who had never seemed to like Lorna or her mother very much and relished the chance to hurt them.

When Lorna was born, Aunt Adelaide said, her mother had been carrying two babies. Lorna had come out first, healthy and small, but her sister, Laura, had come out a gnarled, deformed little thing. Aunt Adelaide said that it never breathed air, just took a last gulp from her mother’s womb before ripping all of her mother’s guts out as it burst out of her. Aunt Adelaide said her mother died in agony, never having touched her babies, and Lorna’s sister never even lived.

Lorna hadn’t said anything to Aunt Adelaide in response to that.  She could never say she'd always known she'd had a sister. Aunt Adelaide would never understand, no more than Auntie Whispers. It had to be an imaginary friend, because how could Lorna ever explain that Laura had always been with her, needing things that Lorna didn't want?

Lorna pulled herself out of bed and walked along the wall, one hand ghosting across any surface that would hold her. Hot tears pricked at her eyes again as she felt wetness slick between her legs, the tang of blood tart in the air. Laura liked to hurt and humiliate her, but there was no use in arguing against her. She just had to feed her sister, bed her back down, and then she could clean herself up.

In the hall she could hear Auntie Whisper’s snoring and she passed by as silently as she could. She left the lights off, wanting to pretend she was the only person on the surface of the earth. The house was dark and cool at night, carpet whispering to her as it passed beneath her bare feet.

She had to stop and pant against the foyer wall for a few minutes, shoving her fingers into her mouth and gnawing on them in lieu of a gag. If she could just get her tormentor to stop, if she could think around what felt like kitchen knives being shoved into the hollow of her pelvis…

At last she made it into the kitchen, the cool steel refrigerator pressed against her sweaty skin. She opened the door, peered in only for a moment, and seized the Tupperware tub full of stew. She cracked it open and reached in with her hand, clutching a fistful of meat and cramming it into her mouth.

Sauce dribbled out of the corners of her mouth and down her chin. Herod was right about adding paprika to the meat, it did make it more flavorful. It was a little bit old now, just nearly stale.

She couldn’t care less about any of it. There was meat, a human body. It was in her mouth. She chewed it just enough to swallow it, choked a little, but got it down. She ate handful after handful of stew, drank the fluid, and licked her hands clean.

Then she reached for another tub, pulling out the ground Chuck.

She ate it, and the leftover braised shanks, and the chops. When she finally stopped eating, she was breathing hard, surrounded by empty tubs, her nightgown stained, her hands sticky and filthy, her stomach panging.

Auntie Whispers was standing in the doorway, looking at her.

Lorna sobbed and tried to sniffle away her embarrassment, unable even to look at the bones scattered on the table. She was disgusting, as dirty as an animal, stuffing herself like a grotesque glutton.

Auntie Whispers approached her and Lorna shied away, tears bubbling down her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I--”

Auntie Whispers reached out and touched her shoulder, gently drawing Lorna towards her. Unable to resist, Lorna threw herself against her aunt, crying into her shoulder and clinging to her like a little child.

“Come on, my dear,” Auntie Whispers breathed. “I’ll draw you a bath and make some tea.”

“I’m sorry,” Lorna whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, dear, it’s not your fault,” Auntie Whispers said, petting her dirty hair. “Come along, now. It’s late.”

***

For two days he had been unable to sleep.

Friday night had been excusable, after a fashion. True to his word Enoch had stayed with him for a few hours after supper. He was ill twice more, much to his own consternation, but Enoch at least had the good sense not to volunteer to take him to a hospital. Around eleven thirty Enoch had finally agreed to go and have himself stitched up, and Herod watched him leave with his guts cramped all in a terror-tangled mess. The man walked away with Herod’s most dangerous secrets bound up in his arms and Herod could do nothing but watch him go, powerless. All his rationalizations, all of Enoch’s protestations of his more-than-good will could do nothing to really assure him that he was safe.

That night he did not sleep, too consumed in self-recrimination and loathing to rest, too tense with fear and dread to lie down. It was his own fault, of course. He was stupid, more than stupid, to be so cavalierly convinced of Enoch’s ignorance and his own masterful deception. His pride, so long and so cruelly battered, driven insane by constant humiliation and now given just a little room to run, had assumed control of his better faculties. It had reached too far. He was revealed and with no one to blame for it but himself.

Had the disease and the poverty not been enough to teach him? He should’ve learned by now to grind down the last of his lunatic conceit, snap off its thorns and pluck out its teeth.

He deserved every humiliation he endured. He had heaped them on himself.

As he pretended to go to bed, he retrieved the cyanide pills he kept in the second floor bathroom and put them on his bedside table. Over the hours he picked them up and put them back down, stroked the bottle, shook out a few capsules and contemplated their shape. Turtle lay on the bed and dozed, occasionally awakening enough to whimper.

He did not kill himself that night. Dressed, he put the pills in his pocket as the sun rose, and went to face whatever the day would bring.

Lorna stayed away. He was grateful for it. He was going to have to find a way to answer for having implicated her in the whole affair and he didn’t know how he was ever going to explain it to that sweet, trusting girl.

Saturday passed slowly into night and he was busily staring at the same sentence in the same book he’d pulled from his shelf five hours ago when he heard the phone jangling away downstairs.

He didn’t want to answer it, but at last he put his book down and descended the stairs, picking it up on the seventh ring.

He held it to his ear and waited.

“...Beast?” Enoch asked.

He stayed silent, momentarily terrified beyond his capacity for rational thought until the hard grip of reason reasserted itself. Perhaps he was being listened to, but he most certainly wasn’t being traced. If anyone wanted to find him, they would do so on Enoch’s testimony without further trouble.

“Yes,” he said.

“There you are,” Enoch smiled. Herod could hear the expression through the phone. Warm as sunshine, or what he thought he remembered sunshine to be. “I just wanted to call and check on you. How is your head?”

“Still attached,” Herod replied. He listened to Enoch’s soft chuckle, felt the urge to sigh, and quietly thought to himself that he was a very, very stupid man. “Your own?”

“Good, thank you. I have some very handsome stitches. I am certain they will make me seem very rugged indeed.”

Herod hummed once and resumed his silence.

Enoch matched him for a few long moments, before clearing his throat. Despite himself, Herod smiled. The poor man really didn’t handle protracted silences well. Perils of being a people person, he supposed.

“I...was worried about you, Beast,” Enoch said at last. “I want to make sure you’re all right. Last night was fraught, and I can’t stand the thought of you waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Herod thought about that for a minute, feeling something go very cold at the base of his throat. It was a good attempt, as far as eliciting confessions were concerned, but he was a little insulted that there was an expectation it would work.

“How very thoughtful of you,” Herod replied, trying to keep his voice as easy as possible. “Thank you kindly for your conscientiousness. I assure you I’m perfectly fine.”

It was Enoch’s turn to be quiet. Herod slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and quietly fondled the bottle of pills.

“I think I know what the issue is,” Enoch said at last. “May I come over?”

Herod frowned to himself. “Tonight?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“It’s already ten,” Herod said. “Can I ask you to stop by tomorrow, perhaps? Or Monday?”

“I--I only--”

“I’m very tired, Enoch,” he added. “You caught me on my way to bed.”

Enoch was quiet again. Herod squeezed the pill bottle and pulled it out, running his thumb across the lip of the lid.

“There’s no one listening, Beast,” Enoch murmured. “I swear it. No one knows.”

“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, Enoch,” he said. He sounded blithe, even to his own ears. Hateful. “Are you sure you’re not in your cups?”

“Beast,” Enoch said in a reproachful tone. He heaved a sigh. “I thought we understood each other. I would never betray you.”

“Yes, loyalty is one of your most sterling qualities. I must say good night, Enoch.” He paused, waiting to hear if there would be any more protests. He’d just pulled the phone away from his ear when he heard a mumble.

He pulled the phone back and listened hard. No clicks, no buzzes, nothing but soft, almost inaudible breathing.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Enoch confessed softly.

Herod swallowed. Astonishing.

“Tomorrow, Enoch,” he said.

“When?”

“As soon as you please.”

“Breakfast?”

Herod hummed his assent.

“Be good to yourself, Beast,” Enoch said, so softly and so sincerely.  "Please take care of yourself."

“Good night,” Herod said, and rang off. He put the cyanide back in his pocket, went upstairs, and fetched Turtle for a walk.

They were out for three hours. A few times Herod approached the borders of the woods or the train tracks and paused, thinking. All his ideas were quickly discounted as unfeasible, of course. But he considered them. He was on the precipice of an existence as a deformed mendicant, but on the precipice he stayed. Dying at home was still preferable.

That night he slept no better, although he made more of an attempt. He locked all his doors and undressed in the dark, feeling the early fall air breathe through the cracks and gaps in his walls. He removed his mask and washed his face, and sat on the bed holding the silver face in his hands.

He shooed Turtle out of his bedroom and tried to lie on the bed in silence, watching the sky outside.  His skin creeped a little.  He was still unused to being naked, even after all these years. 

In the morning he would perform his ablutions and perform the tedious process of consulting his deadened parts for injury. It had been some time since he’d endured a really catastrophic incident but he still looked. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t kept the habit. It was a burden. If he were healthy, he wouldn’t need to look to know if he was injured; if he were dead, he wouldn’t need to care. Living in a corpse was an ugly in-between.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, deliberately trying to loosen his muscles, group by group. Legs, then hips, then chest and arms, shoulders and jaws. It was difficult and it took a long time.

At last, mostly limp, he let his mind begin to uncoil. It cycled around a central point and now he held that spark up for consideration and examined it.

The thought was simply that Enoch never should have sought him out.

Although his world was now 200% more full of people with whom he was completely honest, his elemental ally had not changed. For years he had only himself to be honest with, and so he strove to be candid within the privacy of his own thoughts, come hell or high water.

The result of that forthright thinking was this: he'd never stood a chance against Enoch. Herod could not have turned the man away. Enoch was too many things that Herod had lost so long ago, too many things he missed, too much goodness and pleasure and consideration. After so long alone in the dark, how could he not respond to that? How could he turn himself away from it, be it ever so dangerous? A thirsting man was a weak man, but one did not necessarily blame him for wishing to drink so deep of a fountain that he nearly drowned.

The responsibility for separating them therefore fell to Enoch, and Enoch had not honored his duty. Enoch should have seen his deprivation and his miserable state and turned mercifully away. And if he wouldn’t be merciful and remove himself entirely, Enoch should have at least done the decent thing and averted his gaze from the details of Herod’s life.  He should've looked away before he saw.

Who even thought this sort of life was possible, anyway? Who looked deeply enough into the life of one they presumed to call friend and concluded they were capable of the things Herod was doing? And more to the point, who would remain friends with such a person, would truly wish to protect and guard a monster’s secret?

It made no sense.

Herod sighed slowly, squeezing his eyes just a little more tightly closed. He didn’t want to see the world around him. Where else would he be, if he had his choice? Perhaps in the apartment he’d had at the peak of his career. Perhaps in one of the dressing rooms at the Nymobostratus Conservatory.

Perhaps in that bedroom, with the Garden of Earthly Delights watching him.

His stomach dipped pleasantly, a space hollowing out near his guts, and he frowned to himself, feeling his body struggling towards life. He didn’t have to look down to know what he was dealing with, his one remaining scrap of normality. Panic fear and adrenaline were no doubt helping potency along. How nice, truly the cherry on top of this day.

It made for a frustrating existence, when one’s body still worked and craved while one had no option to experience the touch of another and found themselves repulsed to the point of physical illness by their own touch.

He didn’t do this often. Couldn’t bring himself to. He had never much enjoyed it even as a young man, when he was still handsome and whole. Now he actively loathed it, when it was an ugly necessity to be pushed off as long as possible, in the hopes that he wouldn’t be obliged to perform such a disgusting mockery of healthy instinct.

But the shameful fact of the matter was while that the arms in the pelvises might have been Lorna’s idea, the choice to keep them robed in thick, lewd flesh was entirely his. He realized that that was unfortunately rather telling.

Herod blindly seized one of the smaller, threadbare throw pillows that dressed his bed and pressed it to his groin, letting out a soft huff at the contact. Neglect only made for greater urgency when the need was finally met, after all. He wasn’t surprised that he was tender.

He pressed the pillow down against himself, experimentally rolling his hips against it. There. That was more than bearable. His other hand he fisted in the bedsheets, to keep it away and avoid its touch.

He sighed quietly, slowly pressing plush softness against his prick as he licked his lips. So different from his own hand, and from that came the pleasure. Warm and soft and yielding, broad and firm and…

Well. Enoch.

It was all and entirely Enoch’s fault anyway. Might as well let Enoch pay for it.

Herod spread his legs further and rubbed the cushion more firmly, holding a little pinch of the inside of his mouth between his right canines. His sweet “friend” was just what he liked, anyway, a large, handsome man with good manners and interesting opinions. The small matter of his sadism was beside the point; at least it was certainly nothing like a deal-breaker.

Huge, strong hands, each one large enough to strangle him to death with barely any effort. His throat was still sore from their little argument Friday night; what was it about him that made people want to throttle him? Now, if those hands could only be used productively, holding him against that gorgeous chest and belly, guiding his hips, fondling his cock…

Perhaps he’d have to tie Enoch down and take what he wanted. Morbid tastes were one thing, after all, but surely a leper’s fingers wrapping around his cock or pressing inside him would be too much to bear. Herod could chain that powerful beast of a man to his own bed and just take his time with him, make him shudder with revulsion and slow-dawning, traitorous pleasure, make his cock ache and throb even as his stomach turned and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to see how excited a broken man could make him, how thoroughly a monster could fuck and please him. Herod would punish that arrogance, that superiority, pay him back every cruel little civility with guilty ecstasy before putting that beautiful, ever-talking mouth to very good use.  He would narrate it, every moment, telling Enoch in meticulous detail how it felt, how good he looked, so that there could be no distance from the experience, so that he would remember every instant.

Herod rolled his hips up into the pillow, hard and hot. Good. Not good enough. He didn’t want to be loathed, to be ugly.

Instead, those big hands, reaching out to lift him out of the Adirondack chair on the back porch. Pulling him against that vast torso, holding him in place for the man’s neck to crane down and let a hot, soft mouth catch his, kiss him thoroughly and eagerly. Hands fondling and hastily stripping him, that mouth moving over him with no hesitation, no disgust, every inch of him tasted and enjoyed, hands laying him out on one of those enormous sofas, mouth sucking him in with abundant enthusiasm and a groan of raw lust. Being bent over the table and given that thick, hard cock, fucked until he was seeing stars, until he was screaming from pleasure.

In that bedroom with the Garden of Earthly Delights, vulgarity of every kind observing as a leper and a glutton tangled themselves on the bed. Fed up on human flesh, the ribcage shamelessly left picked on the dining room table, their mouths still tasting like wine as they tore each other apart all over the linens. Enoch, rough with him, deliciously manhandling him, all brute strength and voracious mouth, too aroused by him to be cautious, too excited by the sensation of fingers gouging into his broad back and bites drawing blood to the surface of his skin. Enoch, hungry for his touch. Enoch, whispering endless adoring filth to him, begging to please him, starving to touch him, to have him and enjoy him and use him and be used by him and pleasure him over and over again--

Despite the luxuriance of his thoughts, the mechanical function itself was brisk and, at last, efficient. He ejaculated with a full-body jerk and a soft grunt, feeling less than satisfied and no less haunted by thoughts of his friend, but at least he was no longer itching in his skin. He stripped the pillow of its soiled cover, cleaned himself with it, balled the cover up, and threw it onto the pile of clothes he’d left at the foot of the closet.

He slithered beneath the covers, wishing with all his heart to sleep.

He did not.

At four o’clock AM, he rose, examined his body for injury, bathed, and dressed. He put a bread together and let it rise while he and Turtle had an hour in the neighborhood before the sun rose. They paced around, visited the cemetery, peered in through the windows, killed a squirrel, and fled, like vampires, from the encroaching dawn.

The bread was almost finished when the doorbell rang. Herod checked the clock. 6am.

Well. God bless him, but he was eager.

Herod answered the door, finding to his complete lack of surprise a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, well-scrubbed Enoch Barnes. Somewhat more surprising was the bottle of Cava and the plastic bag he held in his hands.

“Can I fix you a mimosa?” Enoch volunteered, smiling at Herod very sweetly.

Herod stared at him.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked orange juice, but…”

“It’s in considerably better taste than offering me a Bloody Mary,” Herod admitted. He stepped back and allowed Enoch to enter, peering carefully at the dawn-lit world, looking for any unexpected cars or individuals before closing the door.

He turned to Enoch and, knowing that this was a kind of admission, reached out and touched his chest. He felt across the man’s chest and belly, down to his hips, briefly running over his groin before feeling his legs and moving around to run both palms across his back.

Enoch grinned at him when he was done. “You realize, of course, that technology has marched on?”

“Pardon?”

“If I were wearing a wire, it would be digital,” Enoch said. “So small you couldn’t feel it. You’d have to strip me naked.”

Herod hummed and turned away, attempting not to seem discomfited by this unverifiable claim. “Can I ask how you like your eggs?”

“You most certainly cannot,” Enoch replied. He set the bottle and bag on the counter and pulled out a box of eggs, a bottle of orange juice, and a pack of bacon. “You can, however, tell me how _you_ like _your_ eggs.”

“Enoch--”

“Do you have any bacon of your own?” Enoch asked, giving him a slow, penetrating stare.

Herod met it for a moment before looking away. “I...have not quite been able to perfect the slicing technique.”

Enoch shivered, rather subtly, and his smile widened. “Then you just sit tight and tell me what you like.”

He liked his eggs poached and watched as Enoch bustled through his kitchen, making breakfast and retrieving the bread from the oven. It was an appalling invasion of his privacy but he found he could do nothing but sit quietly on one of the barstools pulled up to the kitchen island and slowly drink his mimosa.

At last Enoch placed a dish before him that contained two beautifully made eggs, a smile of bacon, and a pair of still-steaming slices of bread.

Herod looked at him a little helplessly and found himself placed in the direct sunshine of Enoch’s radiant smile. Under the force of such a gaze, he cut himself a small piece of bacon.

Enoch sat beside him on another barstool. Over easy. Naturally.

“Excellent bread, Beast,” Enoch murmured.

“Thank you.”

“The jam tastes homemade.”

“I have a raspberry patch,” Herod replied, delicately carving his egg with the tines of his fork. It felt like an intimate thing to confess, somehow.

“Scrumptious.  You’re to be commended,” Enoch said, nudging him gently in the side.

Herod wanted to stab through his own hand with a fork. “Thank you. You make bacon just the way I like it.”

“No.  Really?”

“Yes. It’s very good.”

“That means a lot, coming from such a chef. I’m flattered.”

Scratch that. Stabbing himself in the eye would be preferable.

At last, with his mouth full, Enoch passed him a small envelope. Herod took it carefully and tore open the seal, drawing out the papers. If this was a subpoena, he was going to spit.

He read a few lines and sat up straighter. “Oh…”

“Mm-hm,” Enoch replied, having another bite of bread. Herod stared at him. Ye gods, the man didn’t even have the grace to blush!

He read the rest of the dossier, his breath coming faster, chest burning wet and hot. Oh, God. Really?

“Enoch,” he breathed, astonished. “Did you…?  The young man?”

“I’m not sure,” Enoch replied, cutting another bite of his breakfast. “Possibly. Or maybe it was the pills. Either way, they never could’ve proved it. But it’s still pretty bad.”

Pretty bad was putting it lightly.

Herod covered his heart with his hand. Oh, the urge to reach out and kiss the man beside him almost overwhelmed him. He settled for taking up his champagne flute with quivering fingers and draining it.

Enoch grinned at him and poured him another dram from the pitcher before taking up his own flute and clinking it against Herod’s.

Herod put his hand on Enoch’s arm.

“Thank you,” he breathed, running his thumb over the bicep. “You--I don’t know if you realize what this means to me--”

“Of course I do,” Enoch replied gently. “That’s why I gave it to you. You can trust me, Beast. You always could. And now you can destroy me, if you like.”

Now, more than ever, Herod wished he had his friend’s gift for spontaneous eloquence.

“This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he said quietly. “I cannot thank you enough. I am so sorry that I repaid you with--”

“Rational, sensible caution,” Enoch interjected. He reached out and stroked Herod’s hand with his own. “You did everything a reasonable person would’ve done. I put you in a horrific position and you reacted in a way that not only protected you but honored me with the level of civility you maintained despite your understandable doubts. I would never hold that against you.”

Herod felt a lump, an honest-to-God lump, form in his throat. He must be exhausted. He didn’t say anything, not trusting his voice for the task, and instead reached out and clasped Enoch’s hand.

Enoch squeezed him back and Herod allowed himself to enjoy his friend’s charity of touch for a long moment before mercifully pulling away.

He cleared his throat. “I don't mean to be impertinent, but I don’t suppose you still…?”

Enoch lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“The pills.”

Enoch grinned at him. “Go on…”

“Only, I am in pain,” Herod said slowly. “And I don’t want to put you in a delicate situation, but if you already…?”

“I think I might have a little morphine stashed away somewhere,” Enoch purred. “Perhaps I could bring dessert, this week?”

“That would be heavenly,” Herod affirmed, grinning behind his veil. He was buoyed up with joy, with relief; some small, terrified parts of him still cautioned him that this could be a trap, and just more diabolical than he had imagined, but despite his natural reserve and suspicion he could not induce himself to believe it.

Enoch left not long after breakfast, breezing _une bise_ against his cheeks on his way out and leaving the groceries with Herod. Herod returned to the living room with the envelope held in both hands, pressed it against his chest, and fell into a swoon on the sofa from which he did not emerge until late that night.

He let Turtle out, fed him, and then dragged himself up to bed and fell asleep again until morning.

***

Enoch spent the weekend wondering what to give Beast. It had to be something really, really good.

It was so unfair to hold this kind of thing over him. How could he really be said to be the man’s friend and confidante, much less his admirer, when he had such a terrible power over him? These sorts of arrangements should always be the consequence of equals with profound respect for one another, not some tawdry little arrangement of four parts danger to one part shame. He wouldn’t wish it on Beast.

Unfortunately, he was a quiet man who lived a quiet life, generally bereft of the kind of terrible, delicious secrets like those which Beast harbored. What did he have that would land him in even remotely comparable hot water if it were discovered?

Saturday evening, after that heartbreaking phone call, he checked his email. Confirming meeting requests in a somewhat desultory fashion, he found his mind wandering. Perhaps he could have a binge over the night and next day, print off his search history, and hand it to Beast in an envelope. Perhaps it would even pique Beast’s interest, if he knew just how passionately Enoch admired the grace of the dead and dying.

He drummed his fingers on the laptop. Ah, but all that would prove was that he had a fascination, which Beast surely already knew. Perhaps the extent of the interest was yet unplumbed, but a gory search history was worthless without the unprovable romantic context. Alone, it didn’t smack of scandal.

No. It had to be something that would ruin him, not just politically, but which would land him in prison. It had to be something that would destroy his life as much as he could destroy Beast’s. That was only fair.

After a little more thought, he smiled to himself and headed for the spare files in the attic. He had just the thing.

***

_He’s sitting in the drunk tank, scared to the marrow of his bones, when he hears her cluck her tongue._

_“Oh, my naughty little social climber,” she croons. “You’ve been a very bad boy, haven’t you, dear?”_

_He looks up and Isolde Nymbostratus is standing on the other side of the barred wall, wearing a white ermine that dwarfs her delicate, bird-like physique. She smiles at him from under worry-canted eyebrows and purses her lips in sympathy._

_“Isolde,” he says, flabbergasted. “I--I--”_

_She shakes her head and waves a gleaming, glinting hand. “Hush now, my sweet. There’s plenty of time for gratitude later. Bailiff, if you please…”_

_The guard nods to her and opens the door. He hesitantly ventures a few paces forward before hustling out of the cell in a burst of terrified steps. Isolde reaches out with wrinkled, varicose-riddled arms and tucks a hand into his elbow, steering him with her bony hips._

_“Come now, my little sweetmeat,” she says, tugging him along. “You poor dear creature, you need a shower and a shave_ tout de suite _. I’ll have Henri bring you something to eat, you precious little angel, something nice and greasy to sop up that,” she sniffed him thoroughly, "oh, bless my soul, tequila and whiskey…”_

_He lets her drag him out to the parking lot, whereupon she reached up with her glimmering hands and slapped him several times, back and forth across his face. He was too stunned by the several reversals of the evening to do more than mutely endure it, with the occasional ejaculation of “Isolde?” before another flurry of kittenish strikes beset his cheeks._

_“Stupid, stupid boy!” Isolde cries. “Oh, you stupid little fool! How could you be so reckless, so totally foolish--”_

_He masters himself enough to catch up her wrists and holds them gently in his hands. Isolde’s eyes are wet with tears and he quickly drops her hands, concerned._

_She gets in one more good smack before pointing a gnarled finger at his nose. “Never again, Enoch. Never.”_

_He’s still addled enough that he’s not perfectly sure what he’s done, but he’s sober enough to know that now is most definitely not to the time to admit to that confusion._

_“Isolde--”_

_“Driving under the influence,” Isolde hisses, “with pills and powders in your car--with a male escort, Enoch!”_

_“I--”_

_“A dead one!”_

_He winces. Ah. There it is, then._

_She trembles, his little lady, and wraps her cape around her body more closely. Her hand disappears within its voluminous drapes and she produces a folded slip of paper._

_“Take that home and burn it,” she explains. “The commissioner of police received my late husband’s scholarship back in his undergraduate career. He owes me a favor or two. And it was just a OD'd street walker, at the end of the day.”_

_Enoch tokes the paper from Isolde and flicks it open. It is the record of his arrest and the testimony of the arresting officer._

_He folds it up again and stuffs it into his jacket pocket, crumpling it._

_“How did you…” Make this go away, he wants to ask._

_Isolde glowers at him. “Stupid boy,” she spits once more, dropping her eyes from his.  She is ashamed._

_He looks at his shoes. It is not for him to question her._

_She hugs herself again and shifts her shoulders to push her coat up higher around her ears. She shakes her head._

_“I can only do this once,” she says in a more mild tone. “This was it, dear. I can not intercede for you again.”_

_Enoch swallows against the wad of fear and despair that had lodged itself in his throat. “Yes. Of course.”_

_Isolde sighs and shakes her head again. “Oh,” she croons to herself. “How youth is wasted on the young. Come along, my little Talleyrand. I mean to fill you up with breakfast and put that lovely smile back on your face.”_

_He followed her to her car, as meek as a lamb._

***

The pebbles striking against her window were a surprise.

Lorna rolled over and frowned into her pillow, still mostly-asleep. It had been such a bad couple of days and she was just glad to be having a quiet night. She didn’t want it interrupted.

But the pebbles did not abate and she was therefore obliged to pull herself out of bed and stagger over to the window, squinting open her eyes. She threw open the casement and stuck her head out into the cool late-September night air, nearly overbalancing in her sleep-addled bewilderment.

Beatrice stood on the lawn, wearing a pair of black shorts with white racing stripes and an open bomber jacket, her hands stuffed in her pockets. She grinned up at Lorna in the glow of the streetlights.

“You really need to check your phone,” she said softly.

“Beatrice?” Lorna mumbled. “What on earth--it’s ten thirty at night!”

“Yeah, I know,” Beatrice replied. “Are you seriously in bed already?”

“Of course--I just said it’s ten thirty,” Lorna whispered, stifling a yawn. “Are you all right? Is anything wrong?”

“No. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah. Wanna go out to the graveyard and have a beer?”

Oh, she shouldn’t. Auntie Whispers might come and check on her, and she would be so very worried if she didn’t seem Lorna sleeping peacefully. Just having dinner with Herod and his gentleman caller had made her so angry and fearful...

Beatrice smiled at the way she bit her lip.

Somehow that decided it.

“Let me just change!”

“No way,” Beatrice said, “I’m in my PJs. You should be, too. Unless you sleep in the nude…?”

Lorna tucked her hair desperately behind her ears. “I do not--”

Beatrice grinned. “So come on down. It’ll be fun.”

Lorna gave her one last smile before closing the casement and slipping through the darkened halls. Her aunt snored peacefully in the master bedroom. Lorna smiled as she passed and slipped her feet into her shoes before carefully sliding through the front door and locking it behind her.

Beatrice waited with the skateboard and a six pack. “All right. Hop on.”

“Oh, no,” Lorna said, shaking her head. She felt that she must look fairly silly already, in her ankle-length high-necked nightdress and her hair in a mussed braid. “I tell you I cannot ride it, Beatrice.”

“I’ll walk you,” Beatrice smiled.

Lorna huffed but hitched up her skirt enough to step onto the skateboard. She immediately started wobbling and seized Beatrice with clawed hands in a bid for balance. “I am going to make a fool of myself!”

“Well, yeah, that’s the point,” Beatrice said. She held Lorna’s upper arm and pulled her and the skateboard along. “It’s kind of a good look. Weird gothic heroine girl shredding down the street.”

“Weird? I resent that.”

“Duly noted. Now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep that collarbone mostly intact, so…”

Lorna switched her grip to Beatrice’s shoulders and allowed herself to be dragged the two blocks to the graveyard. Beatrice kept insisting that she should kick herself forward but Lorna would hear none of it. Being pulled along was one thing, but getting a wheel caught in her skirt and landing inelegantly on her rump was very much another.

Beatrice helped her off with sarcastic good will and mounted the hill to the boneyard. Lorna followed with her hands fidgeting in her fisted skirts.

“Is there any particular reason you want to be here?” Lorna asked, not sure what she wanted the answer to be.

Beatrice shrugged. “Fall’s coming. Soon it won’t be warm enough to stay out at night. And nobody hassles you in the graveyard.”

“It’s a peaceful place,” Lorna agreed. They passed the site of her young man and she smiled slightly in fond remembrance. He’d been so tasty.

“I guess we really shouldn’t be out here, at the end of the day,” Beatrice said, plopping down on the ground beside a mauseoleum and putting a cigarette in her mouth. “Whole lotta death in the neighborhood lately. We might get axe murdered or strung up, being out here.”

Lorna smiled and sat tucked beside beside her with her skirt covering her feet. “Oh, now. I think we can protect each other pretty well.”

Beatrice passed her a cigarette and lit it for her. Lorna took an experimental drag and coughed it up before taking another. The lids of two beers snapped off and Lorna drank hers in a series of careful sips while Beatrice downed her first in almost a single pull before getting her second.

“Hey, it’s been a long week,” Beatrice replied to Lorna’s concerned expression.

“It’s Tuesday,” Lorna murmured.

“My point exactly. Tell me what you’re reading.”

Lorna was just getting into the metafictional significance of her novel when a small voice faux-whispered, “That doesn’t look like Beatrice.”

“Greg, shush!”

“You shush!”

Beatrice slapped a hand to her face and pulled down, frustrated. “Cheese and crackers!”

Lorna scooched away from Beatrice and hid the beer behind her back, flushed with embarrassment.

“It’s not my fault!” a young man said, popping up from around a gravestone. He looked to be about fifteen, perhaps a newly-minted sixteen. Lorna smiled at him nervously and eyeballed the little child he had with him. The little boy was dark-haired and carrying a stuffed frog and smiling at them with no trace of either guile or sleepiness.

“How is this not your fault?” Beatrice asked. “Your mom specifically said he was supposed to be in bed by eight thirty--”

“He was! You put him there! But after you left I had a snack and started watching TV and before I knew it he was up and out the door!”

Lorna turned to Beatrice with wide eyes. “Oh, Beatrice, you didn’t leave them alone, did you…?”

“No, I--” Beatrice huffed and shoved a hand through her hair. “I have an arrangement with their mom, right? So on the nights she’s out I help Greg with his homework and make dinner and get him in bed and then Wirt here,” she waved a hand at the young man holding the child’s hand tightly, “is supposed to be back from extracurriculars and keeps an eye on the house from nine on. But obviously he can’t handle even that--”

“He just snuck out!” Wirt wailed in an agony of embarrassment. Lorna gave him a comforting smile, hoping he could see it in the dark.

“I just wanted to see what all the ruckus was about!” the child, Greg, reported. He was small, but spirited. Probably very sweet, if one handled him right. “You guys are always running around at night and I want to know what’s up. I want to see the house where the witch and his dog live!”

Beatrice breezed over this announcement, scowling at Wirt. “So why didn’t you take him home when you caught him?”

“I...don’t have to answer that,” Wirt replied. Lorna found herself smothering a smile at Beatrice’s singularly unimpressed expression.

“Well, it’s time to go home,” Beatrice said in a grumble. “Come on. I’ll take you back.”

“I’ll come along,” Lorna volunteered, scooping up the bottles and tucking them into the slots of the container.

“Nah, it’ll be quick--”

“I’d like to come along,” Lorna insisted. “If you don’t mind.”

Beatrice looked at her and smiled slowly. “All right. We’ll make a parade.”

“I get to lead!” Greg cried, delighted.

They fell in line, Greg leading them down the street and waving a twig he’d found for a baton. Beatrice walked beside him, holding his hand across streets. Wirt walked apart with his shoulders hunched, trying to look smaller than he was, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Lorna sidled up to him.

“Little ones can be such a handful,” she said, coughing delicately into her fist.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Wirt grumped. He looked at Lorna. “Uh. I guess we weren’t introduced. I’m Wirt.”

“Lorna,” she smiled. “I’d take your hand, but I’m a little ill.”

“Oh. Do you have a cold?”

“No. Just too much work,” she said, shaking her head. “I need a break.”

Wirt rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s what you guys were doing in the graveyard. We kind of interrupted it. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I should’ve been going back home soon anyway. My aunt...well. She likes to keep me busy. I still have some chores to do.”

Wirt stared at her. “But it’s almost eleven o’clock!”

“Yes,” Lorna said, sounding ever so slightly confused by his confusion. “But there’s still all the work to do to be ready for the morning.”

“That’s a really tough schedule,” Wirt said, looking concerned.

“It’s good for me,” Lorna said, coughing again. “My aunt says the work keeps me busy and makes sure I won’t be wicked.”

Wirt’s young face twisted in a grimace. “That seems kinda weird. N-no offense to your aunt--”

“Oh, she’s not my real aunt,” Lorna said. That one always got ‘em.

“Oh!  That is super weird!” Wirt cried, aghast.

Lorna shook her head. “That’s why I sneak out, you see. But I need to go back soon or she’ll be very upset.”

“Um,” Wirt said. “If there’s ever anything I can do to, uh...maybe I can help with some of the work?”

Lorna gave him a tender look. “You mean...help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps...yes, perhaps you could,” Lorna said softly. “Come by any time during the day. She works then and won’t be home to watch.”

Wirt smiled at her. “Okay. I--uh, we will. Me and Greg.”

“Thank you,” Lorna breathed, and waved at him as Beatrice took them both up into the house. When the redhead returned, Lorna wiggled a beer at her.

Beatrice let out a helpless laugh. “Kind of tanked the evening, didn’t they?”

“Not at all,” Lorna said. “I found them very refreshing. Let’s go back to the graveyard.”

As they walked away, Lorna linked arms with Beatrice. It was bold, she knew, but she was so pleased that she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

***

Tode and Frugg returned.

Despite a moment’s unworthy terror and complete hurt at the thought of a betrayal, Herod managed to recover himself and notice the lack of arrest warrants or supplementary bailiffs. In fact, the detectives asked if they might come in, bereft as they were of an entry warrant, and Herod waved them into the house with nothing more emotionally charged than mild curiosity.

Lorna had popped in for lunch and now stepped up to host with an immaculate good will that mirrored his own. It was good to have a young lady in the house, both for his own appearances and to have someone overhear the conversation. She served them all tea and the officers sat on his sofa and drank it while he petted Turtle and assumed his well-worn role of the disease-ridden, elderly, agoraphobic, frail homeowner.

He still wasn’t entirely sure he liked how easy it was to deceive the detectives. It was, however, delightful to watch Lorna sink into her own disguise. Timidity and genteel, ladylike illness made her almost unrecognizable to one who knew her as a vivacious, charming, mischievous predator.

“Can you recall your evening on the night of the 15th?” Tode asked. Frugg was chewing on almond cookies with what appeared to be perfect contentment.

“Yes, I believe so. Lorna and I were here, having supper.”

“Beef stew,” the girl supplied with a weak smile. She blew her nose into her handkerchief.

“And then I believe we listened to Hot Jazz Saturday Night,” he said. “On eighty eight point five. They had an excellent Wes Montgomery piece, I recall. Lorna did some embroidery. Do you have it, child?”

She dug around in her little tote bag, retrieving a scrap of beautifully-stitched work and showing it to the detectives. “It’s for my aunt. You see, I’m pretty good at handicrafts but I’m finding this fabric kind of a challenge--”

“Thank you, miss,” Frugg said. “The rest of the evening?”

“We took Turtle out for a walk around ten, through the park and around some neighborhoods. I dropped Lorna off and watched her in, then returned home. I went to bed almost immediately after. I woke up around 2am when I heard a noise, I’m not sure what. Probably just raccoons. I couldn’t fall back to sleep so I put on Opera Encore--Verdi’s _I Vespri Siciliani_ was on, but it’s better than nothing--and I worked on one of the deer skeletons in the basement. Would you care to see it?”

“Please,” Tode nodded. “Miss Lorna, can my partner ask you a few questions?”

“Of course,” Lorna said sweetly.

Herod got to his feet and led the detective into the basement. It was a wise man who always had a two week-old deer carcass around in the event of curious interlopers.

“I had my groundskeeper pull it in for me,” he said, gesturing to the beast on the table. It was all bones now and he was trying to think of what to do with it. Perhaps he would make a present of the skull to Enoch. The antlers could be very handsome with a little polish. “And I have a rabbit or two here with very nice fur still…”

“Speaking of the groundskeeper,” Tode said.

Herod turned to look at Tode. “Speaking of him?”

“What exactly is your relationship with him?”

“Why, that of an employer and an employee,” Herod replied. “What else could it be?”

“Are you friendly?”

“Detective Tode, you’ve met the man. He isn’t the sort to be friendly with anyone, I would say. I find him to be a little loose with his tongue and with no love whatsoever of me, even going so far as to accost my guests, few as they are.”

“That sounds about right,” Tode sighed. “Mr. Bethlehem, your groundskeeper has requested more than once that we investigate you when these incidents pop up. At first we thought you might fit the M.O., but…” Tode lifted his hands and looked around. “We’ve been here again and again and haven’t found anything. We won’t be taking calls from your groundskeeper any more, but in the interests of having a happy home you may want to speak to him.”

“Oh, dear,” Herod murmured, electric vindication zipping through him. He tamped it down. It could be a trap, it very well could be... “I’ve always known he did not like me, but involving the police is too much. He has been spreading some ugly rumors about me. Murder, is it? Perhaps I tuck the bodies under my rose bushes?”

“That, at least, he denies,” Tode said with an unamused twist of his mouth.

“I apologize, for what it’s worth,” Herod said. “I don’t know what I’ve done to give him such an impression, but I’m sorry it’s so strong that it’s come to inconvenience you gentleman.”

Tode nodded and reached for his pocket. He drew out a card case and gave Herod yet another of his business cards. “Thank you for your time today. If you think of anything else, or see anything a little bigger than raccoons…”

“You’ll be my first call,” Herod said, “thank you.”

Frugg had finished with Lorna upstairs by the time they reached the first floor, and the detectives left shortly thereafter. Herod watched them enter their dark sedan and drive away through a sliver of the music room’s curtains before discreetly drawing one finger in a circle, indicating the house at large.

“No,” Lorna said. “I know what to look for. They left nothing behind. No bugs, no cameras. That’s FBI stuff, anyway, and they’re most certainly not those kinds of police.”

“Mm,” Herod said, and recounted the interview with Tode in the basement.

“That’s a little odd,” Lorna said at last.

“More than a little,” Herod confirmed. “Never trust a candid policeman.”

“What do you want to do?”

“There’s little enough we can do,” he replied. “Continue our schedules. Keep our eyes open. Refrain from any showy displays, at least for a few months.”

“Oh, but Halloween--!”

“I know. Temptation is cruel. But it’s an issue of safely. The most important thing is that we get some leeway...and once we feel we have a little breathing space, I must dispose of my groundskeeper.”

Lorna came over beside him and Herod stepped out of the way to let her look. She peeped through the curtains, watching the groundskeeper resentfully prune and weed.

“Let me try something,” Lorna said. “He just needs a nice distraction. It might put him on a leash.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s worth the try, at least.”

“If this is emotional in nature,” Herod said, gliding away from the window and towards the piano, “it’s going to backfire. He’ll have someone to protect. He’ll fight harder.”

“Or he might settle down.”

Herod tilted his head at her and gave her a look. “My dear child, look at the man. The only thing he’d like more than an opportunity to fight is a cause to fight for.”

“Just let me try. You might be surprised.”

Herod waved a hand. “My servant is yours. Have fun with him.”

Lorna smiled at him. “Do you need someone to turn pages?”

“Not at all,” Herod replied, stretching his fingers carefully and humming a little to himself. “But, if you’d like to fetch me a pen, I mean to write this next bit down.”

***

“Pardon me, sir,” Lorna said to the groundskeeper. She gave him one of those sweet little smiles that still pulled on the rusted-out paternal strings of his heart.

He wished the girl wouldn’t come and go, even if she swore she had gained her aunt’s permission to do so. It was too dangerous by half.

He pulled off his cap and tried to look gentle to her. “Yes? What can I do for you, Lorna?”

“Mr. Bethlehem said I might have a few flowers to take to my aunt,” she replied. “She’s been feeling a little down lately and I thought something beautiful might cheer her up. I was wondering if you could advise me what to take.”

The groundskeeper struggled for neutrality. Like hell that monster would ever care about another living soul, much less give them anything. It was a trap of some kind, but he couldn’t quite see where.

But if the girl really had license...Ms. Whispers would get the best he could offer. She deserved it and more.

“I’m sorry to hear Ms. Whispers is unwell,” he said sincerely. “Let me help you cut a bouquet.”

“Thank you!” the frail girl said with a feeble smile. His heartstrings twanged. Something about the Whispers women made him want to protect them, to be an umbrella for this child flirting so close to death.

He cut her some rhododendrons, lilies, a few burgeoning amaryllises (though not without a blush), one of the vast sunflowers, and a few of the very last-blooming roses from the garden. She held them together as he tied a bit of garden twine around them and smiled over the blooms at him with an expression of pure-hearted delight.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “She’s going to love these. Will you come give them to her with me? She only just mentioned what a beautiful job you do, and I know she would love to compliment the man himself.”

He knew from experience how it felt to have his cheeks burn pink and he tugged on his cap in an attempt to distract from it. “I’m afraid I’m still working--”

The homeowner opened a window and, Once-ler like, spoke to them from the darkness within. “You’re dismissed for the day, groundskeeper. Thank you.”

Lorna gave the monster in his lair a little wave and looked to the groundskeeper with earnest hope in her eyes. “Then, can you come by? She’ll be home any moment…”

He cast one last look at the window before nodding his head. “If it would please her. Let me just get my things.”

He walked Lorna back to Hawthorne Street, pausing now and then so the girl could catch her breath. The poor creature was indeed sickly, and though he didn’t know just what the matter was he knew it couldn’t be improved by her being in that closed house all day long.

Lorna unlocked the door and invited him in, slipping off her shoes as she did so. She tied an apron around her waist and offered him a glass of iced tea.

“She’ll be home very soon,” the girl said, consulting her mobile. “Ah! Just at the metro station. Not five minutes, then. Would you mind waiting just a little while?”

“Happy to,” he said, entirely out of his depth as Lorna presented him with a tall glass of tea and placed before him a small dish of scones. He watched the girl putter around the kitchen, apparently consumed in the work of preparing supper, until the door opened and closed.

“Lorna, dear?” Ms. Whispers called. Her voice sounded tired, perhaps even a little wary. Lorna was right, then; she did need cheering up.

“In here, auntie!” Lorna cried. “And with a surprise!”

He took that to mean him and rose to his feet, cap in hand to greet the lady of the house.

Ms. Whispers stepped into the room and caught sight of him with transparent surprise. “Oh! This is a pleasure. How good to see you, sir.”

He bowed his head. “Ma’am. Good evening. I hope I’m not intruding--”

“Nothing of the kind,” Ms. Whispers replied, smiling brightly.

“He just dropped by to give you some flowers, auntie,” Lorna said from where she stood, chopping carrots. “Some of his best work, I think. Aren’t they beautiful?”

He took his cue and thrust the flowers forward. Ms. Whispers, still more astonished, turned a ravishing shade of pink and gently took the blossoms from him with careful hands.

“They are beautiful indeed,” she said, dipping her nose down to smell them. “I will put them in a vase. Thank you so much, this is so very kind…”

He found himself smiling helplessly. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Auntie, would you like me to make the chicken or the pork?” Lorna asked as he aunt moved to one of the cabinets.

“Chicken, dear, since it’s still so nice and fresh. I thought I left a note--”

“Oh, you did. It’s just that we have so much of it, and I don’t think we can eat it all ourselves tonight…”

Ms. Whispers’ gaze moved from her niece to him and her smile, a little wry and a little teasing, made his heart swell in his chest. “My, my, what a predicament. How shall we resolve it?”

Lorna looked into the refrigerator. “I suppose I can make the pork…”

“No need, my dear. Sir, would you like to stay for supper?” Ms. Whispers invited.

He was grubby, still a little damp in the knees from mud, and probably could not smell too fine after a day’s exertions.

“I have a little before-dinner cocktail recipe I’ve been meaning to try, but one can’t really do that kind of thing without guests,” Ms. Whispers added. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

Well, that sealed it.

“I’d be happy to accept, thank you,” he said, and soon after found himself bustled into the living room, aperitif in hand, and the lady of the house on the other side of the sofa.

The flowers did look rather handsome on the dining room table, if he did say so himself.

***

“Mm, Beast,” Enoch sighed. “You’ve outdone yourself, you really have. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything quite that delectable.”

“You are too full of praises, most of them undeserved,” Beast said with a slight shake of his head. “That little bit of sour flavor? You detected it, I’m sure, because I know I wasn’t able to get it all out.”

“Not unlike ceviche, I thought.”

“Continue to compliment me unjustly and I will take back my belief in your good taste. The flavor is my fault. It means that he died frightened. The terror of the last moments releases chemicals that alter the meat. An amateurish mistake on my part.”

Enoch grinned, feeling his heart flutter delightedly. “I found it added a very toothsome tang. Utterly luscious."

"Pfah."

"I would go so far as to say indecently delicious.”

“Indecent?” Beast tittered. “I suppose it was a very short skirt steak, at that. I’m afraid it had to be cut so, to make anything salvageable.”

“I begin to think that you can salvage anything from anywhere.”

“Only nearly. There are some matters beyond even my ability,” Beast demurred, sitting back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other.

Enoch smiled to himself. This was what he had wanted all along: Beast, comfortable around him, open and contented and relaxed. He realized that until now he wouldn’t necessarily have known that Beast wasn’t at his ease, so complete was the artifice of his body language and the composure of his voice. But now that they shared a genuine understanding?

The difference was night and day.

After supper, they took a walk with the dog, rambling through the darkened neighborhood. Fall was humming everywhere and the nights were coming sooner. Beast seemed to like it, which made some sense, if the only time he let himself out of doors was when it was dark.

They returned in a little under an hour. Beast built a fire in the fireplace while Enoch watched.  Beast turned to face him just in time to see Enoch reach into the breast pocket of his jacket and place a small bottle on the coffee table.

“Ah,” Beast crooned, “dessert.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re too kind, Enoch.”

Enoch shook out a trio of pills and offered them to Beast, smiling as his friend delicately took one. Now, as a bold young thing two pills would have gotten him pleasantly buzzed, but he had put on a little extra weight as his years went by. That was fine. He’d prefer to be more aware of Beast’s condition than less.

They took the dose and Beast curled up, catlike, on the sofa beside him, picking up the book of horror stories he’d left on the coffee table. He found his place and began to read aloud.

Enoch checked his watch, settled back, and let his dear friend’s voice wash over him. Listening to Beast purr sweetly over words like ‘crawl’ and ‘tear’ and ‘gash’ and ‘scratch’ left him perfectly content, with the fire crackling before him and a very pretty monster at his side.

About thirty minutes in, Beast’s voice grew more lazy and at last stopped in the middle of ‘skin.’ Or at least he thought it was ‘skin.’ It trailed off rapidly and got lost in a slow sigh.

“There we are,” Beast murmured.  Obviously the morphine had really hit him. Enoch grinned lazily, because he was feeling it too, and it was nice.

“Better?”

“So very much so,” his host agreed. Those strange, clear eyes closed and his head rolled back to lean on the sofa. “I cannot thank you enough. This is very special.”

“It’s a pleasure, truly,” Enoch replied, and they sat in contented silence for a moment or two.

“I stand by what I said earlier," Enoch said.

“Hm?”

“You could make a mint, reading those stories.” Beast snorted softly. “I’m serious. You have a perfect voice for it. You ought to make yourself a podcast or something.”

“What on earth are you talking about,” Beast drawled.

“It’s a--wait. You have a radio. You listen to NPR. I know you’ve heard of a podcast.”

Beast gave him a look that made it very clear that he was grinning behind the mask.

“Tease,” Enoch accused warmly. “It’s a bet, now.”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m betting with you. If you let me record you reading one of those things, I’ll put it online. Publicize it, send it to friends, make sure it gets marketed, the whole ball of wax. If it gets more than, oh...let's say, fifty downloads, you’ll pick a room in this house and give me a proper tour of it. Just one room.”

Beast hummed. “If you want a tour, you need only ask.”

“Ah, but that’s no fun.”

“Fine. More than fifty downloads, and I’ll show you a room.” Beast rolled his head on his neck and propped his jaw up on his hand. “And if it gets fewer than fifty? Which it will. It very much will.”

“Well, what would you like?”

“Hmm. Let me think about it,” Beast said, and turned to look at the fire.

Enoch mimicked him, lacing his fingers across his belly and contentedly waiting.

***

Herod watched the fire dance, luxuriating in the moment. He didn’t have the kind of lifestyle that could support a morphine addiction, but it had been a very long time since he’d last been able to shake every unpleasant sensation, from the sometimes-agonizing strain in his hands down to every last niggling ache and pain. This was a pleasure indeed.

What a silly bet this was. But he saw no way to lose, really, as little as he wished to be forcibly propelled back into the public eye. It was a harmless enough thing, and there was no way Enoch could win when perhaps two or three people still remembered he was alive.

What did he want as a reward?

He was pleased with Enoch, with their reestablished and improved situation, but he’d endured a considerable ordeal before Enoch’s act of mercy and friendship had set him back on his feet. After being vulnerable and powerless and out of place, humiliated time and again, what would best soothe his soul?

He wanted control. He wanted to throw all of Enoch’s nonsensical folksy gentility back in his face. To disgust and horrify him, to feel him squirm, whether in revulsion or in his own shame. To embarrass him, appall him. Not for long, no, and not to his detriment, but just enough to serve him back for all the little things of these last months. Perhaps it would only bite him in the end, this cruel urge to prove that Enoch was not as good as he seemed to be, but he wanted it no less for suspecting that.

There was a part of him, a hungry, eager part egged on by the morphine, that wanted to demand some kind of sexual favor of his dear friend. The thought of it alone was a little pleasure: even if he was only disgusted and grimly determined to honor his word as a gentleman, the image of Enoch on his knees was still one to savor.

Ah, but of such things were broken friendships made. He didn’t want to scare the man off or hurt him. He liked Enoch, liked his company. It would be a shame to lose him, especially over something so intimate and so coercive.

Something tame, then.

“If I win,” Herod sighed at last. His voice sounded dreamy, like an opium eater's. He was most definitely high. “You’ll kiss my hand.”

Enoch blinked at him several times and pulled his head back a bit, almost like a startled dog.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“I want to see if you’re a brave as you seem,” Herod said. “I assure you it’s not dangerous. The disease can’t be contracted through simple touch, even if I was still contagious. But it should appeal to your morbid side, having to touch decaying flesh. And it will appeal to my lingering craving for physical affection.”

“You’re sure that’s what you want?” Enoch asked.

This hesitance only solidified the idea in Herod’s mind. Yes, he wanted to watch his friend squirm.

“It’s what I will have,” Herod replied. “Because there’s no way you’ll win.”

Enoch leaned further back on the sofa and Herod watched him grow a little tense.

He laughed.

“Have another pill, my friend,” he said. “You’re too tightly wound. You can relax, you know; I’m not about to throw myself upon you like an animal.”

“Can you blame me?” Enoch replied. “I still have a few grisly wounds from the last time we had dinner together.”

Herod clicked his tongue. “I’m much too high for that nonsense tonight. You’ve pacified me. Soothed the beast in his very den.”

“It’s a gift,” Enoch smiled.

Herod smiled back, making sure his eyes narrowed happily, and returned his attention to the fire. “When shall we record?”

“I can be back on Sunday, if that suits you.”

“Dinners and breakfasts, my, my. Yes, that will be fine. Do you have a microphone?”

“I can get one.”

“Excellent. And so you will have five days to amass fifty downloads or more. An impossible task worthy of the best Greek heroic traditions.”

“So you say.”

Herod hummed a soft laugh. “And your honor as a gentleman that you will abide by the conditions you described?”

“But of course.”

Herod extended his hand and Enoch clasped it in his own. They shook and Enoch pulled away first. Herod smiled to see it.

There. That would put the fear of God into him.


	8. Music Room

Miss Clara liked to be in the office at 8am. It was peaceful, to have that first hour pretty much to herself as she tried to slash through the thicket of appointments and correspondence that awaited a mayor’s office every Monday. Everything ran so much smoother if she had a handle on things before Enoch arrived for the day.

She had just tidied up his office and was heading for her computer when she nearly collided with her boss in the doorway between their desks.

“Oh!” Miss Clara said, coming up to a rapid halt and trotting hastily backwards. “Enoch! You’re in early. I only just got the coffee on.”

“Good morning, Miss Clara,” Enoch said. He stepped back into the waiting area to let her move about. “I hope I haven’t completely disrupted the morning routine?”

“Nothing I can’t fix,” Miss Clara replied with a mischievous grin, gliding through the door. “You don’t have anything on your schedule until 10 o’clock. Is there anything I’ve missed?”

“Good heavens, rather all continents and all lands would sink into the sea. No, Miss Clara, I’m actually here to talk to you.”

“Me?”

Enoch stepped into his office and crooked his finger at her, summoning her within. Miss Clara followed him, fingers laced together and held at her lap.

Enoch sat down in his desk chair and fished a flash drive out of his shirt pocket. He offered it to his assistant, who took it with delicate fingers. “Your brother is a sound-editor, isn’t he?”

“Well, that depends on who you ask. He says he is. Mother says he’s a clerk at the grocery store. I suppose both are technically true.”

Enoch smiled. “What’s your estimation of his abilities?”

“Better than a novice, not at good as a professional. Passable. Why?”

“On that flash drive is a little recording I made this Sunday and I’d like to have it polished up a bit,” Enoch said, sitting back in his seat and lacing his fingers over his belly. “It’s about twenty minutes long. Would your brother consider $200 to be an insult?”

“Oh, Enoch, he’d be delighted! I’ll call him right now--it’s his day off. He’ll be thrilled!”

“Excellent,” Enoch murmured. “No real rush. Perhaps he can get it back to me by Wednesday?”

“I’m sure he can! What is this a recording of, by the way?”

“Mr. Bethlehem have another little bet--”

“Ooh, of course...”

“--thank you, yes, and I have wagered that I could get 50 downloads on a recording of him reading aloud a ghost story.”

“Oh!  From the ones with the horrible pictures?  Miss Elizabelle won't stock them, but I remember being terrified as a child...”

“I'm afraid I have no idea if it is or no.”

“Well, leave it all to me,” Miss Clara said with a resolute nod. “Of course it won't take until Wednesday--I'll make sure he has it ready this afternoon.  We’ll win this bet for you, Enoch, and you collect on on your reward.  Is it a handsome one?” she added with a wink.

“Ah, yes, I believe it is, and thank you, Miss Clara, but it’s really not anything so very serious--”

“No, no, no,” Miss Clara said. “And even if it weren’t a matter of pride, it’s not as if it will be hard to get 50 downloads. He does have such a wonderful voice...I bet we can just give it over to the Ladies’ Gardening Club and there’s fifty downloads right there! They won’t mind a little horror story, not if it's purred so nicely.  And it is getting on to being October…”

“Miss Clara--”

“I'll crack the whip on my brother a little right now. He'll do a good job with this, you’ll see. And I’ll be sure to listen to it myself to make sure it’s spic and span.”

“Ah,” Enoch intoned, “the truth comes out.”

“No need to thank me,” Miss Clara said with a teasing little wobble of her head. “It’s my pleasure, I promise you.”

Enoch clicked his tongue and gave her a wry look as he put his reading glasses on his face. Miss Clara replied with a little flash of a smile and scampered out of the office.

***

Well. There he had it.

Enoch heaved a sigh and wished he could give himself a swift kick. He was twice a rube--once to bet on something as concrete and inarguable as numbers, and twice to share his predicament with Miss Clara. Of course she’d do her very best to help him win a bet he desperately wanted to lose.

He was still a little astonished that Beast would suggest such a thing as a kiss for a reward. Astonished and delighted, obviously, but in hindsight he should’ve taken a cue from Beast’s apparent willingness to touch his hands and endure his hugs. Somehow that had been eclipsed in his mind by Beast’s dry remark about Lorna being a “hugger,” and Enoch had begun to think that the man had developed an abhorrence of more intimate touches.  But all this time Beast had actually been starving for physical contact, so much so that he was eager to earn it as a prize.

And he could've collected on it, if he'd been just a little more canny!  Damn him for a fool.

Enoch sighed to himself again and pocketed his phone, mounting the steps to Beast’s home. It was the middle of October now, and with the season had come a change over what few of Beast’s grounds could be seen from the street view. The roses were cut back to mere twigs in anticipation of prevailing winter, and the decorative trees that lined Beast’s walk were dropping their leaves. Enoch, who had never been comfortable a summer in his life, was now beginning to feel as if he could move and breathe with ease once more. The sun would set at six thirty tonight and Enoch soothed his disappointed heart with the thought that he might claim winner’s privilege and barter a longer than usual walk before dessert.

Ugh, listen to him. Positively puppyish.

The doorbell had been on the fritz for a few days, so Enoch rapped on the front door with his knuckles, waiting for the rapid scramble of doggy feet to herald the homeowner’s approach. He looked out over the yard while he waited, looking to see what had changed since last week. It seemed that the groundskeeper was absent, if only for the nonce, and at least Enoch himself was glad of it, although it did oblige him to wonder just where the man was and just what he was up to.

But there came no response to the summons, so Enoch knocked again. When this, too, garnered no reply, he put his ear to the door and frowned, wondering at the lack of music within. If Beast wasn’t preoccupied with his piano, what could be keeping him? The sun was out, so he was certainly home…

Scarcely believing it would have an effect, Enoch turned the knob and found that it yielded to his touch. Well, that was dangerous living for a man with Beast’s kind of secrets. A warning klaxon began to throb in Enoch’s head and he stepped quietly inside, setting his parcels down just within the foyer. He stood for a moment or two, listening intently for the pitter-patter of either two or four feet. When even Turtle did not appear to greet him, Enoch picked up one of the bottles of wine and held it by the neck.

He ventured through the hall into the kitchen in, peering into the sitting room and the dining room. The table was dressed with its immaculate white cloth and the candelabra for which Enoch had such fond feeling stood proud and prettily dressed with dinner tapers. The china was placed in perfect readiness, although he could see the glassware waited on the kitchen island. Obviously Beast had been expecting him.

At the far side of the dining room was a closed door, through which Enoch could only assume was the music room. He’d just decided to head in that direction and check for anything out of the ordinary when his eye caught the sliver of open door stuck into the back of the main staircase.

Well, now.

He supposed the terms of the bet had included a tour. He hadn’t hoped it would be quite so self-directed, naturally, but desperate times occasionally mandated a little bending of guestly good manners.

Enoch paused before the door, and to his enormous relief, finally heard a much-desired voice.

“Ah-ha, no, dear child,” Beast was saying. “Let me show you, you’re gripping it far too hard.”

“Oh!” Lorna’s voice popped from the deeps. “Sorry.”

“Not at all. No need to be nervous. Ah, that’s much better, isn’t it?"

Lorna emitted a little giggle. “I have to admit it’s not quite what I would’ve imagined. I mean, you see all sorts of elaborate equipment on TV--”

“Television has spoiled you with lies.”

“But I think I see what you mean. I suppose it makes sense, that a lighter touch is better…”

“That’s the interesting thing about control, I have always thought--a gentle touch assumes it much more completely than even the fiercest grip, as you yourself are now demonstrating beautifully. Very good. Smoothly now, dear.”

“Eep!”

“Steady, steady. That’s supposed to happen. Unavoidable, really. But I apologize, I might’ve warned you…”

“I’m not a complete novice, Herod. I know just a little bit about these matters; I should’ve expected it.”

Enoch slowly opened the door wider and mounted the first step. Despite his weight, his steps were perfectly soundless and he moved without the merest creak or groan down half the flight, until he could see the cavern of the basement.

Against the far wall stood a counter with a medley of jars, blades, needles, and other taxidermy accoutrement standing ready, clustered around a sink set into the center of the work surface. A row of cabinets hung above the counter, and closer towards the center of the room stood a marble island with a half-polished deer skeleton sitting on top of it.

In the center of the room, Lorna and Beast stood by a small plastic kiddie pool. Each had a knife in their hand, and between them, hanging from a meat hook, was a very human corpse, still dripping into the pool.

Enoch’s eyebrows jumped on his forehead. Beast had been one thing, certainly, but Lorna…?

Beast spotted him first, flicking his head to face him in a startled gesture. Enoch watched, gratified, as Beast’s posture instantly relaxed.

“I really must try and put more of a creak in that door,” he murmured, almost to himself. He spoke up. “I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of the time.”

Lorna herself whipped around to look at him and went even paler than usual. She tightened her grip on her knife and her eyes darted from Beast to him to the corpse to him again, breath coming in hard, hyperventilating pants.

“Beast,” Enoch said slowly, looking at the girl.

“Hm? Oh,” Beast said, turning to look at Lorna himself. “Hell.”

The girl moved quickly. She flicked the knife around in her hand, gave herself a slash across the cheek, and lunged at Beast, blade gleaming. Enoch dropped the wine bottle, distantly hear it break on the concrete floor, and ran down the stairs.

Beast took the hit with a wobble but managed to stay up, throwing his own knife away and reaching for the girl’s attacking hand. She hissed at him like an angry cat and swung a leg up, lodging her knee into his stomach. Beast made a pained noise but held her tight, trying to pull her close.

“Lorna--” Beast croaked. “Lorna, listen to me--”

Enoch crossed the basement floor rapidly and caught the girl up with one arm. He twisted the knife from her grip, a little surprised by how hard she thrashed, and tossed it away before wrapping her in a tight bear hug, her back to his chest.

Lorna kicked and let out a high, sharp screech as she struggled against him. "Help! Help!" 

Enoch squeezed her harder.

"Don't--" Beast said, reaching between Lorna's head and Enoch's chest. "She's going to--"

Lorna twisted her head violently to the side and snapped her teeth. Instead of Enoch's neck, for which she's doubtlessly been aiming, her mouth closed, hard, on Beast's wrist.

Beast didn't seem to react except to use the arm to brace the girl's head. "Lorna, listen to me. He's fine. He already knows."

Lorna growled at him.

"Lorna. He already knows about me. He's safe."

"For you," she snarled, letting his wrist go to talk and writhe. Enoch clung as tight as he could. He knew he could hold her easily, but she still was a mighty force if or her size. "Not for me! He has to die."

"Just think for an instant how stupid that would--"

"You'll be the one to suffer," Lorna said, "not me!"

Beast's eyes hardened and he seized the girl's head in his hands.

"Very well," he said in his satiny, threatening voice. He held her head perfectly still and stared her down. "Then let me put this another way: you will not. Touch. Him."

Lorna struggled in Enoch's grasp, trying to toss her head. Beast held her so tight that his fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her cheeks. He stared hard at her, and when she closed her eyes and tried to wrench her head away, he pressed his thumb against the cut on her cheek and dug in.

"Look at me," Beast insisted softly. "You will not touch him. Or I will come after you. Understood?"

Lorna struggled a little bit more, but she was becoming exhausted and her writhing grew more and more feeble. At last she stopped and hung limp in Enoch's grip.

"Fine," she spat. "I won't touch him."

Beast nodded and released her head. He glanced up at Enoch. "Would you be so kind?"

Deciding to have faith in Beast's faith in Lorna, Enoch let the girl go and took a few steps back. Lorna stood under her own power for a moment or two before she lifted her fingers to her cheek, as if dazed.

"Oh," she said, as she looked at the blood on her hands. "Oh, dear."

"It _is_ a little affected for a defensive wound," Beast said gently. He walked over to one of the counters. "The angle is all wrong. But I respect the forethought that went into it. You're to be commended; if the groundskeeper had been here, it might've been a rather masterful scheme."

"At least he's on my side," Lorna said, mopping at the blood on her face with the tips of her fingers.

"Don't do that, child, it will become infected." Beast pulled a first aid kit out of the cupboard--the selfsame one, Enoch realized, that Beast had offered to him after their miscommunication. "And I'd suggest you be careful you're not actually on his side."

"What is his name, by the way? I feel I should know it but I'm embarrassed to say I do not."

"Oh, I've no earthly idea. Why is everyone so keen to know?" Beast shrugged, putting a little flourish of his wrists into it. He passed Lorna an alcohol wipe and a tube of Neosporin and turned to Enoch.

"Now, then...I've been an appallingly bad host," he said, and approached him with a slightly-dramatic gesture of welcome. "Good evening. I must apologize. Lorna came in with this succulent little morsel in tow. Naturally my first thought was Coq Au Vin and it seems everything else got lost in the details. Welcome!"

Enoch gave Beast a smile and received him with a hand on the small of his back. "I'm afraid I made a mess of your floor, Beast. Is there a mop nearby?" 

"Oh, leave it. I'll clean everything in the morning." 

Enoch turned a little to contemplate the child's corpse. "Boy Scout?"

"Yes, actually," Lorna said, as she pressed the disinfectant to her cheek. "He took the wrong bus and I found him at the grocery store. Very lucky thing. How did you guess?"

"Fresh Indian burns. Classic give-away." Enoch rubbed his hand across Beast's back. "I have news."

"Do you?" Beast asked, as he slipped away to collect the knives. "I take it you are properly chastised? You'll forgive me if I do not strip out of my glove now; well may you wish to do the deed on an empty stomach, but I intend to savor the anticipation."

Oh, if only.

"I don't know anyone in the world as willing to bet against their abilities as you are, Beast," Enoch replied thoughtfully. "You ought to have more faith in yourself, or perhaps just less cynicism. As it happens, you've lost."

Beast, his left hand full of blades, laboriously opened and closed his right hand several times. "Proof?"

Enoch pulled up the webpage on his phone. At this rate he'd lose a fortune in roaming data. Perhaps it was time to buy Beast the precious gift of wifi and drag the man, albeit kicking and screaming, into the 21st century.

Passing towards Lorna and the counters, Beast took the device with the peculiar Ludditic mingled distrust and delicacy that characterized all his interactions with Enoch's phone. He put the knives in the sink, seized upon a handful of butterfly strips in the first aid kit, and passed them to Lorna as he squinted down at the screen.

Lorna, still dawbing at her face with the ointment, peered over his shoulder.

"Impossible," Beast said. He sounded honestly stunned.

Enoch smiled, feeling a little legitimate smugness break into the expression.

"No," Beast said, holding the phone closer to his face. He held it away again and passed it to Lorna. He took away the butterfly strips and began applying them. "Read that. Your eyes are better."

"'Phantasmagoria with Herod Bethlehem, Ph.D.--'"

"How on earth did you find out about that," Beast interrupted, cutting Enoch a sharp look.

Enoch grinned broadly and tucked his thumbs into his suspenders.

Lorna's voice was quickly taking on rapid and slightly shrill tones of the delighted and teasing. "'Horrifying tales read by a scholar in the field--"

"Enoch," Beast snapped, making an aggravated noise with his mouth. He pressed another strip to Lorna's cheek. "I'm a Doctor of Musical Arts, thank you very kindly."

"'--sure to tingle the spine and keep you up all night long!' Herod! You never mentioned...!"

"Not all that," Beast said impatiently, "although _Phantasmagoria_? Really? Read me the number of downloads."

"Seventy two. Three!"

"Like hell!" Beast snorted, attaching one last butterfly strip to Lorna's cheek and moving away from her to face Enoch head on. "All right. How many did you pay, and how much did you pay them?"

Enoch placed a splay-fingered hand over his heart. "I did nothing of the sort, Beast, and I'm appalled that you would think I did."

"You're a politician, Enoch," Beast replied. "You have people in your hip pocket and you don't take kindly to losing. Now tell me how you managed to get apparently the entire population of Pottsfield to listen to this nonsense and we'll consider the matter concluded."

"I really, really want to hear this," Lorna said.

"As do I," Beast added. "It cannot possibly be what I recorded. This thing can play the recording, correct? I should have some kind of speakers suitable for the task. We'll play it after supper."

"Can I stay for dinner?" Lorna asked, all prior animosity apparently forgotten.

"Of course, of course," Beast said in a distracted tone. "Come along."

"Is, ah..." Enoch gestured to the child hanging from the meathook. "Can this be left at the moment?"

Beast stopped short and looked at the child. "Hm. Here." He passed the phone back to Enoch and took up one of the blades from the sink. "Lorna, are you watching? I'll do it rather quickly this time, but at least you'll see how it works."

"All right. I'm watching."

Beast gave the hanging body a prod and nodded to himself as it dribbled but did not gush. "'Field dressing' is the polite term for this. It's very simple and if you've ever hunted you've surely done it. This is my method and I think it's a rather good one. To begin, we need to get him horizontal."

"Here, I'll help," Lorna said, but Enoch got there first.

"Please, let me."

Beast looked at him, evidently surprised. "...really? Are you sure? This will only take a few moments, and the living room is perfectly comfortable at this time of year..."

"No," Enoch said with a smile. "I'd like to see. I'm rather curious."

"I hope that curiosity isn't matched with squeamishness," Beast said slowly.

"It isn't. It would please me enormously to watch you work."

Beast tilted his head. "Very well. I'll take his legs, then, and--"

Enoch wrapped his arms around the child's corpse and lightly bounced it off the meat hook. It fell on his shoulder with a limp thump and he carried it over to the marble slab, where Lorna was hastily removing the deer skeleton.

"My goodness," Beast hummed. "Such a gentleman."

Enoch grinned. He put the boy down and stood with his hands braced on the table, trying to keep his breathing steady. Lorna cut him a wary little look but did no more, and together they watched Beast deftly open the child's skin.

"The first incision should run from the solar plexus to just...here." Beast delicately sliced away the genitals and placed them in a stainless steel bowl. "Reserve those. They are a delicacy. Now. Stop the cut several inches before the anus, for obvious reasons. Your knife has a gut hook, does it not?"

"No. This is already more preparation than I usually do. I just cut things off."

"Oh, my child," Beast tsked. "Well, Christmas is coming. Perhaps I'll get you a present. To begin, you run the flat of the blade like this, just to get the skin off...see? Now we handle the innards. This is a little unfortunate, but it cannot be avoided: just cut a healthy circle and tie off the bung, like so. Can you pass me the hacksaw? The pelvis is always tricky, but I prefer this to an electric--ah, thank you, Enoch..."

The entire operation took an astonishing thirty minutes. By the end, Beast stood over a three gallon bucket of containing most of the innards and twirled his knife around in the remaining fingers of his right hand.

"That's enough for now," Beast said. "I think it's better if we let it hang a little while longer and bleed the rest. It's time for supper, assuming anyone still has an appetite."

"This is involved," Lorna said, lightly running her fingers across the cut and exposed ribs.

"It is indeed. Such is art," Beast said. He rubbed his fingertips together in his sticky, gore-encrusted gloves, and put the knife down. "Are you all right, Enoch? You look a little flush."

"Perfectly," Enoch said, even as he dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. "It's...nothing short of craftsmanship, Beast. You're a master of your art."

Beast's shoulders drew back and he gave a little wiggle of his head. "You certainly do me too much credit," he demurred. "Lorna, you're in an apron--will you help me hang it up again?"

"Of course."

They put the boy back on the hook, a rivulet of blood running again from his disemboweled carcass. Beast put the intestines carefully away with a cheerful chirp of "Compost" and put the reserved heart, liver, and genitals away in the icebox.

Enoch followed them up the stairs to the living room. Beast quickly let Turtle in from the garden and excused himself to change. Enoch watched him go and found himself alone with Lorna.

The girl stared at him for several long moments. In a low, dangerous voice, she asked, "What's your game?"

"Bocce, when I can get it."

"Mr. Barnes, you're a liability to me and to him. Why are you here? What are you holding over him?" Lorna insisted.

"I have a great affection for Beast and I'm happy to support him in all his endeavors."

Lorna snorted. "Politics. Tell me why."

"I'm merely a close friend, admiring his skillset. I--"

But the girl, who had been giving him a slow once-over, was going completely scarlet. Enoch noted the position of her eyes, did a brisk bit of angular geometry, and hastily shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Oh," Lorna squeaked. "I think I see."

"It's--"

"No, no, I understand," she said, raking her hair behind her ears with both hands. "I think I understand the issue. That's for him, then?"

"I don't want you to think I only--"

"Please," she said at last. "I understand as much as I wish to, Mr. Barnes, thank you. This...is reassuring, in its way. Although..." She began to frown. "You certainly wouldn't use this secret to...?"

"I believe him to have no idea of my regard," Enoch said rapidly. "Or if he is aware, he is perfectly indifferent."

"Oh," Lorna said. "Good." She cleared her throat delicately. "I...believe you know where the powder room is?"

Enoch felt stomach twist in mortification and he beat a hasty retreat to the salle de bain, to splash a little cold water on his joints and return when decent.

On the grounds that they had exceeded the dinner hour by some minutes, supper was immediately presented and consumed, albeit with a bottle less of wine than had initially been on the menu. The meal was eaten with relish but with slightly fewer praises than usual from Enoch, who could not quite buck up his usual effusive and admittedly flirtatious admiration with the watchful eye of Lorna upon him. Indeed, such reticence was clearly not unnoticed, for Beast cut him the occasional bewildered look from his seat at Enoch's right hand.

"Is there anything else I can offer you, Enoch?" Beast said, as they began to sit back and survey the wreckage of the meal.

"Oh, no; everything was delectable, Beast, thank you."

"I don't suppose I could pack any up for you to take home?"

Enoch smiled sheepishly. "Ah-ha, no, but thank you." Enoch felt that it was very much one thing to consort and frolic with beautiful murderers and dine handsomely on human flesh while in someone else's town, but to bring such things into his beloved Pottsfield would be simply wrong.

Beast gave him just one more look before turning his attention to the dishes and spiriting them away. Lorna, sitting across the table from Beast and apparently perfectly recovered, smiled into her wine glass. Enoch gave her a look.

They adjourned, then, Turtle in tow, to the music room to listen to the recording. This room, Enoch realized, was certainly the one in which Beast lived.

It was a very beautiful and very sad room, Enoch thought. The walls were painted a pale green that had probably gone paler in the long years since the room was renovated. A few paintings dressed the walls: two portraits, one of a beautiful young woman, and the other, of obvious antiquity, of a distinguished gentleman. A chessboard stood on a small round end table and bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with both books and LP records. An antique Victrola stood atop another decorative table, although it shared space with a more modern and doubtlessly functional record player.

There was still evidence here and there of what had been lost. Although the grand piano took its place of pride and glory beside one of the curtained windows, Enoch's eye still fell upon things like an unopened set of Vanderbilt harp wires, secreted into a corner, and a cello's endpin anchor, folded and stuffed beside a book of 16th century chamber music.

But at least a few things hadn't changed since the early nineties, and Beast was able to plug his record player into the headphone jack of Enoch's phone with little enough trouble. Enoch hit play and took a seat on a violet bergére, while Lorna settled into a caquetoire and Beast placed himself in an attitude of intense listening on the piano bench.

"Good evening," Beast's voice floated from the speakers. "This is Herod Bethlehem, and tonight I'm going to read you a short bedtime story. This is M. R. James' _The Mezzotint._ " 

Enoch laced his fingers over his belly and meditated on the dulcet, rich beauty of Beast's reading tone. It was deeper and smoother than Beast's ordinary speaking voice, though not by much. He felt rather gratified that it was of course not a patch on Beast's singing--the man had chosen his profession well. Enoch let the voice glide across his mind, smiling a little to himself as he anticipated the work Mr. Clark Deen had done to make an excellent reading even better.

"'Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure...'"

The recording went on almost to the first changed image of the mezzotint in question before Beast struck his hand upon the piano's lowered fallboard and pointed his left index finger at Enoch. "False you are, Enoch Barnes, and perjured."

Enoch lifted his eyebrows and shortly and minutely thereafter, his eyelids. "I beg your pardon?"

"This is not my recording," Beast said. "You've tampered with it. There's a Tristan chord playing ever so softly there."

"Hm?" Enoch asked, pulse beginning to hammer. This could be just the thing... He assumed a still more lackadaisical posture. "I've no idea what you mean."

"No, I think I heard something, too," Lorna murmured.

"Pause it," Beast commanded, and Enoch thumbed across his phone as Beast flipped up the fallboard and struck four keys, creating the chord aforementioned. "That was not included in the original recording, Enoch. What did you do to it?"

"Why, nothing at all..."

"Will you add 'liar' to your ignominious designation as 'cheat'?" Beast demanded, obviously loving this.

"Well, perhaps I might've just happened to mention it to a friend who’s a friend of the mother of the boy working as assistant manager at the Widow Mathers’ grocery store--which, but you’ll enjoy this, has been really having a most interesting week, beginning with Mr. Aspen’s adventure on Monday--”

"Enoch," Beast said sharply. "You have my assurance that I shall be agog to learn the latest gossip from Pottsfield, as I always am, but for now this conversation has a purpose and I entreat you, Mayor Barnes, to devote yourself to it."

“Ah! Yes. Where was I? Friend of a friend of the mother of the--yes. And this young man is not only an assistant manager, which I’m sure you will agree is an upright and excellent position for a young person to hold in the standing of his community, but this young person is talented enough to be a sound editor. Well, I happened to mention that I had this little bet revolving around the recording, because of course one must trade gossip to have gossip, and what should the young man do but offer to get it online for me."

“Then it has been tampered with,” Beast said. “Altered.”

"We said nothing about such a restriction when we laid out the particulars of the bet, Beast!" Enoch replied. "My dear friend, it pains me to say it but you reach too far. Perhaps it is time to simply yield with grace."

"Yield?!" Beast cried. "I most certainly will not! You did not permit the work to stand on its own merits! You decided that it needed polishing--"

"I absolutely did not."

"And it is therefore an altered product, perfectly distinct from the original work."

"You really think a Tristan chord or two is responsible for the success of the recording?"

"The devil is in the details. It is precisely this kind of affectation that alters a product substantially from its original form. It is not merely me reciting a ghost story, is it, when it has introduced the medium of music into the essential substance of the recording."

Lorna watched this short burst of Beast in high dudgeon with a smile breaking the banks of her lips. Enoch cast her a sly, rapid wink and she flashed her teeth in a grin.

"And all that said," Beast sniffed, on whom all this face pulling was lost, "it's a cheap parlor trick. It would never account for more than a paltry clicks--and I am not omitting the probability that you simply manipulated your network of acquaintances to achieve it, in any event."

Enoch lifted one eyebrow and slowly brought the other up to join it. "Do you mean to tell me, Beast, that such a body of work at this--with its substantial and solid core of excellence and its very thin veneer of polish--could not attract the attention of more than seventy five individuals?"

"I mean precisely that," Beast sniffed. "And I will wager on it."

Enoch had a devil of a time keeping the grin off his face. A thin smile, however, could perhaps be permitted under these delicious circumstances.

“Will you, then? Very well. What would be appropriate?”

“200 downloads,” Beast said. “More than that and you win. Less, and I do.”

Enoch darted an obvious glance between Beast and Lorna, trusting that it would not be lost on his host. “Let’s hammer out the details later.”

Beast, rolling his shoulders a little as if to unruffle himself, nodded. “Very well.”

They listened through the rest of the recording, and although Beast did seem a little embarrassed, he also straightened his back a bit when Lorna drew her feet up onto her chair and hugged her knees.

“You’ve got one more download right here,” Lorna said, shivering, as the recorded Beast intoned his sign-off. “And I know a few other people who would find it extremely appealing.”

“Oh, please,” Beast murmured, giving his hand a little wave.

“Halloween is almost here!” Lorna insisted. “And this sort of thing is perfect for it. You really should do a whole series.”

“Hmm. Well, if Enoch continues to make nonsensical bets, you might just have it.”

Enoch scoffed quietly and stretched his legs out before him, one ankle crossed over the other. Turtle, who sat beside Beast, nudged his master's knee with his nose.

"In the meanwhile, perhaps a short walk would not be ill-advised," Beast said.

They ambled quietly through the darkened streets, passing St. Dymphna's and the vacant lot in a twist of navigational humor on Beast's part. Turtle wandered here and there through the drifts of orange and yellow leaves, sniffing at the autumn air and darting suddenly after squirrels and rabbits lost in the gloaming. Their steps ran soft across the brick walks and through the sparse and withering grass, and as they went Enoch found himself looking into people's uncurtained windows, examining the interiors of their rooms and almost marveling that they should seem so detailed and so real.

As they turned onto Hawthorne Street, Lorna's head jumped up and she eagerly tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed back any little flyaway strands. Enoch could just make out the figure of a slight, smallish person leaning against the fence.

"That's Beatrice," Lorna said in a soft voice.

"She appears to be waiting for you," Beast replied.

"I might've mentioned that Auntie Whispers was working late tonight..."

"Well, I wouldn't keep her waiting. Please, don't trouble yourself to introduce me," Beast said, and Enoch wanted to take his hand when he heard the sincere desire to remain unknown beneath the tease.

"Good night, Herod, Mr. Barnes."

"Good night, Miss."

"Good night, Lorna. Come back tomorrow and we'll finish up."

The girl nodded and darted away towards her friend. Beast, Enoch, and Turtle walked on, although Enoch did turn his head to look and watch this Beatrice enfold Lorna in a quick hug and take her jaw in her hands, obviously noticing the fresh cut.

"She's a good girl," Enoch said.

"Very. I apologize for earlier. I'm afraid that was my fault entirely. I might've warned her."

"Oh, I'm not put out much. You're the one who got bit, after all."

"Oh yes, I did, didn't I?" Beast murmured, reaching out to touch his arm. "I'd forgotten just as soon as I disinfected it. It doesn't hurt, so I hardly noticed. I suppose I'll have to keep an eye on it."

Enoch shook his head.

"But pups nip," Beast went on. "It's a fact of nature. I don't hold it against her."

"Is that what she is? Another puppy?"

"Of course. Children and animals are very much alike. All you really have to do to get them to behave is establish your dominance."

Enoch hummed deeply. "Something tells me you're rather good at that."

"I'm flattered. I try not to be a very harsh master to serve."

Enoch chuckled and they walked the rest of the way in contented quiet, reaching the borders of the woods. They had explored this part of the world under a July twilight but it took a very different cast now, and Enoch paused before he entered it.

"I'm sure to twist an ankle over a root," he said. "I'm sorry to cut the ramble short, but..."

"Nothing of the kind. Turtle and I shall have another walk before bed," Beast said. "Let's have dessert."

As they headed back towards Edel Avenue, Enoch's mind turned to the statutes of their new bet. "Shall I come by Sunday for breakfast and a story?"

"That suits me very well, yes," Beast replied. "Have you give some thought to your reward?"

"I have. If I win, you must let me set you up with some kind of wireless Internet."

"Oh, really..."

"And a device on which to enjoy it," Enoch said. "And I'll bring Lorna into it and have her watch you use it."

"This is a very steep prize, Enoch."

"It shouldn't give you much pause, Beast, if you're certain that this is just parlor tricks."

"And I am. Very well, Enoch, I accept."

"And your prize?"

"Nothing so extravagant. You'll provide three dinners for us. However you'd like to interpret that."

"A pleasure, Beast. You shower me in delights."

Beast gave his head a little wiggle as they mounted the steps to the house. "Such is the sacred duty of a good host."

Almost before they were even within Beast's foyer, Beast was already putting the screws to him. "But for now: you have cheated."

"I still protest in the utmost against that allegation."

"I'm sure you do. It nevertheless remains a simple fact. You have cheated in our bet, and there cannot be a clear winner in circumstances such as these."

Enoch watched as Beast futzed about with the tea kettle and pulled a small chocolate torte out of the refrigerator. "Something of an expansive claim..."

"When it comes to gambling, the very concepts of 'win' or 'lose' cease to have any genuine meaning with the introduction of deception," Beast insisted. "You did not allow it to be a game of chance, based solely on the preexisting merits of the work. It was skullduggery, at the very least."

Enoch smiled. "Assuming I answer these charges in a manner congruent your allegations--what can I do to atone for my sins?"

"Surrender a forfeit," Beast said, "and we'll say no more of it."

"Hm. Sounds like a blank check, to me. What kind of forfeit, Beast?"

"I would not ask much," Beast mused. "Perhaps another meal at your own beautiful home."

Enoch hummed and watched Beast slice the torte.

"Perhaps I might beg the loan of a book from you, or a very good bottle of wine."

Enoch drummed his fingers against the counter. "By all means."

This dismissive facade was precisely the kind of thing to get under Beast's skin. He placed a slice of the dessert on a plate and pierced it with a dessert fork.

"I think I would be most convinced of your contrition, however," Beast said, "if you would render to me that very small token which was to be my prize in the first place."

"Oh, Beast--"

"It would be a most gracious gesture," Beast said with a smooth, careless shrug.

"You ask a great deal, for someone who lost so soundly," Enoch intoned.

"And you withhold much, for someone who has gotten his reward anyway, no matter how ill-gained," Beast snapped, sweeping up the dessert plates and carrying them into the dining room. "You have seen two rooms of my house which had been until now beyond your ken, and here you have the presumption to deny me my very moderate meed."

Beast threw himself into his chair with an unabashedly dramatic gesture and Enoch gave him a wry smile that threatened at every moment to become a giddy grin.

"You make an excellent point," Enoch said. "I see I cannot get out of it without proving myself the worst kind of welcher."

"Indeed," Beast hummed. "Is that a stain you wish to have following you?"

"Never that. I accept your terms, Beast."

"Good." Beast settled himself more comfortably in his chair, leaning against the backrest and propping the elbow of his left arm on the chair. He flicked down his wrist and carefully pinched the tip of the middle finger of the glove, beginning to gently draw it off.

Enoch kept his hands in his pockets and tried to think of Lorna as he watched this slow striptease.

As the fabric shifted to permit the release of Beast's palm, Beast quickly snapped off the rest of the glove and held it in his right hand. He dropped his gaze from Enoch's face--God only knew what was writ large across his features--and considered the slow, stretching movements of his fingers for a moment. He extended his arm with an elaborate, mocking grace, and offered the hand to Enoch.

"Whenever you're ready," Beast teased, smoothly crossing his legs.

Enoch took in a slow, stammering breath, taking in the decadent scene before him. With his head arched slightly back and his mocking eyes half-lidded, body relaxed and inviting, it was clear that this was Beast's idea of a parody of sensuality, but as ever Beast was simply too seductive for it to be anything but a smouldering reality. Enoch wanted to drop to his knees. He loved the way Beast crossed his legs...what he wouldn't give to have them wrapped around his neck.

Ah, but it wouldn't do to keep him waiting. He might begin to feel self-conscious, and Enoch absolutely couldn't allow that.

Enoch gave himself a mighty talking-to and gently took Beast's hand in one of his. For a moment he only held it, marveling at its fragility and its spareness, the affectation of the paste ruby only emphasizing the wastedness of the living flesh. The skin was cool, despite having been kept in a glove, and terribly thin. Enoch could easily see Beast's blue and green veins rippling across his bones.

He leaned down, almost bent in half. Bowing over Beast's hand, he placed the first kiss directly on the paste ruby.

Beast _tch_ ed, unimpressed. Enoch looked him in the eye and grinned at him, and placed the second kiss on the skin of the back of his hand.

The skin felt even cooler against the blood-warmth of his lips, and so close to the wrist Enoch could just smell the fragrance of a very subtle cologne. The next to be kissed was Beast's index knuckle, and Enoch hummed gently against it, the hardness of the bone mere milimeters from the answering hardness of his teeth. The tip of his nose pressed lightly to the back of Beast's hand, and Enoch moved Beast's hand very carefully, to kiss the middle phalange of his middle finger, and then--chastely, although he burned to open his mouth and lick, take it between his lips and suck--the scarred stump of the ring finger.

Beast's fingers twitched involuntarily and he gasped a soft breath, a startled little sound incomparable in sweetness as Enoch drove himself to memorize the texture of old, smooth scar tissue pressed against his mouth, rubbed against his bottom lip. He sighed happily as he moved on to the space where the little finger used to be, giving it the same attention.

He turned Beast's hand around, admiring the slightly clawed extension of his fingers. Enoch slid his thumb across Beast's palm and then removed it, pressing a kiss to the tips and then the insides of his fingers. Beast twitched again and Enoch touched his smiling mouth just above the heart line of his palm, before sliding down to linger in the gulf between his head and life lines, placing two or three kisses there. He brushed his lips against the sparsely cushioned Mound of Venus, aching to hold it in his teeth, and pressed another slow kiss the stark veins flowing silently through the delta of his wrist.

"That line from Baudelaire," Enoch hummed against his skin, kissing once more. "'I dreamt I smelled the perfume of your blood.' What is it?"

He glanced up. Beast was staring at him with wide eyes and Enoch listened to the man's hard swallow.

"I...am afraid the French escapes me just now," Beast breathed.

"No matter," Enoch said with a smile. "I suppose it's more accurately 'dreamt I smelled the perfume of a Boy Scout's blood,' anyway."

Beast made a little noise of acknowledgement.

"Not," Enoch added, "that you smell like blood. Actually, you smell like it surprisingly little, when I think where you were less than two hours ago."

Beast cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm quite something when it comes to getting stains out. Lady Macbeth would be so jealous."

Enoch laughed softly and released him at last, turning to sit and be discreet at his place at the dining room table. "Well, Beast, are you satisfied with my surrender?"

Beast was holding his bare hand in his gloved one, and quickly shifted his chair and pulled his glove back on. "Very adequately so, yes. I suppose I might've expected that you couldn't just let me win. I should've expected you to be cheeky."

Enoch had a bite of his torte and only smiled.

On his way out the door, around ten o'clock, Enoch felt Beast's hand alight upon his shoulder like a wary black moth.

"This sound editor friend of yours," Beast said slowly.

"Yes?"

"He...that is...just how much did he have to do, to make the recording worth listening to?"

Oh, Beast.

"I'd just like to know if there's anything I can do to cut out some of the workload for him," Beast said with a wave of that hand, flicking it away from Enoch's shoulder. "I shouldn't like to give him a battered product."

Enoch smiled and leaned against the doorjamb. "As I understand it--and I am a novice in these matters, I admit--my friend said it was a very good recording, very crisp and clear. He really did very little to it besides adding the odd atmospheric filigree and tightening up some of the pauses and gaps."

"Ah." Beast turned his head to communicate nonchalance. "I know it wasn't my best work, of course, because it has been some years since I performed anything. But if it was merely a cosmetic adjustment, that's something very different."

"I'm certain it was. The sound editor is Miss Clara Deen's brother, you see, and to hear her tell it you were really giving the young man a chance to practice, more than anything else," Enoch said.

Beast hummed. "I see. Well, then by all means let the young man play with it, if he likes. I should be perfectly pleased to provide any musical accompaniment, but I won't take the opportunity away from someone so young and eager to prove themselves. Although he might go just a bit more esoteric than the world's most well-known chord, if he really wants to impress..."

Charmed, as ever, Enoch took the beautiful, gesticulating hand and pressed it between his palms. Beast stilled and watched him, wary and wild and lovely.

Enoch smiled. "Good night, Beast."

"Good night."

Enoch left the house with his phone out, already texting Miss Clara to ask for her brother's number and just how much a wifi plan would cost.

***

The groundskeeper did not take Lorna's cut lying down.

Herod stepped out only for a moment or two, to consider his winterized garden and cut a few last autumn fruits from his vegetable plants, when his gardener stepped out from behind one of the shrubs and accosted him.

"What did you do to that girl," the man growled.

Herod heaved a sigh. "Absolutely nothing."

"You carved up her face," the groundskeeper snarled, bristling with rage. Herod watched him carefully, uncertain how far he could be pushed. He'd already been on the receiving end of such brute physicality from the damsel herself, and he had no desire to make it a full week of beatings.

He had the iron-clad impression that he'd only very rarely been quite so brutalized quite so often before his social circle had lately expanded. There was some problem people saw in him that made them want to use violence to resolve it. No wonder he was an introvert.

"I understand that she was cooking and her knife slipped."

"You're a liar," the groundskeeper snarled.

"If you find me so completely untrustworthy," Herod snapped, "to the extent that you truly believe I would attack a child in such a cruel and blatant way, you're more than welcome to leave my service."

Maybe he could get Lorna's little friend Beatrice to run some errands for him. Surely he could find some other gardener before the winter was over.

"I'm going to find out what you're doing," the groundskeeper said, "and I'm going to put a stop to it."

"You're dismissed," Herod sneered, turning his back on his traitorous servant.

The groundskeeper reached out and grabbed Herod's shoulder. "If you ever touch my daughter again--"

Herod turned and stared at the groundskeeper, who immediately dropped his hand and, Herod noticed with a flash of hatred, wiped it on his pants. The man seemed abashed by this Freudian outburst and Herod locked in on that vulnerability with every bit of his predatory instincts pushing him on.

"I mean--that is--the girl--" 

"How dare you," Herod said softly. "Do not presume to hold me culpable for your pathetic inability to protect your own child."

The groundskeeper looked struck. Herod felt a stab of vicious glee.

"You're dismissed, groundskeeper," Herod said, flicking him away. "Don't come back."

He mounted the steps, entered his house, and locked the door behind him.

The groundskeeper wandered stupidly around the yard for a few moments before storming away to the curb. Herod watched him go, wishing he'd had the thought to sic Turtle on him.

Well. That was going to make Lorna's life interesting.

***

"And to be honest, my dear," Ms. Whispers said, as she poured her gentleman caller a cup of peppermint tea, "I'm afraid I never did much like the man, myself."

The groundskeeper--although he was no longer anything of the sort--looked at her with such tired hope in his eyes. "Didn't you?"

"No. Lorna adores him, and I'm not quite sure why, but I don't like her to go over there without me. She still sneaks out to see him, I think."

"You don't suppose--" and his stomach turned even to think it, "--that there's anything _unnatural_ about the attachment, do you?"

Ms. Whispers let out a low laugh. "I certainly do not suspect there is anything sexual going on, no. Not least of all because I'm sure Mr. Bethlehem is of the theatrical bent and I'm not sure Lorna is the kind of want a boyfriend."

The former groundskeeper looked out at the pretty backyard, where the girl was with two neighborhood boys. Lorna raked leaves as the small child ran around with a frog and the older boy dragged the yard waste to the curb.

"I suppose I understand the urge to escape the house now and then," he admitted. "It must be hard, at this age."

"She is a grown woman," Ms. Whispers sighed, "but I don't think I can leave her alone. She's still such a child in some ways...my poor girl. She's very sick. Always was, even as a little baby."

"But she's grown to be very sweet-tempered and very good," the former groundskeeper said. "She must be a comfort to you."

Ms. Whispers smiled thinly.

"I love her," she said. 

He smiled, and did not notice that that was not really an answer at all.

***

"So, I don't know," Beatrice said one night, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lorna's room. "You wanna grab a drink sometime?"

It was a rainy night and Beatrice had nearly given Lorna an attack of apoplexy by climbing the tree outside her window and swinging into her room. Now they sat with Beatrice's shirt on the radiator and the six pack they'd dragged up the side wall between them.

Lorna, who was still in her street clothes, took another sip of her beer. "I'm pretty sure I managed to grab this one with my crochet hook on a string."

Beatrice smiled at her and kicked a foot in her direction. "Not what I meant, smartass. Do you want to go out sometime? Like, on a date."

Lorna felt herself turn very, very pink and thought quite suddenly about Herod and the advice he'd given her courtesy of the "Sapphics" he'd known.

"Yes," Lorna said in a small voice. "I'd like that very much."

Beatrice gave her a grin. "Good! Where do you want to go? Anything you want to eat?"

"Anything," Lorna said. "Anywhere."

"Well, you're easy to please."

"I'm going to be very happy as long as I'm with you," Lorna said, lowering her eyelashes a little. Even so, she could see the way Beatrice turned a beautiful and shy shade of bright red, right up to the tips of her ears, before waving a hand.

"Oh, that's so cornball," she groaned. "You can't pull any sappy lines like that on me when we go out."

"No promises," Lorna said into her beer.

Beatrice grinned.

***

Miss Clara picked the recording up on Sunday night and had it in his hand on Monday morning. She had dark circles around her eyes but she was grinning.

"Do not listen to this after dark," she said with a shiver. "It really will keep you up all night! I turned the lights off around 3am and when the cat jumped onto the bed I screamed so loud I woke the neighbors!"

Enoch chuckled. "Oh, my apologies! I'm glad to hear it's potent stuff."

"And how. You know, Clark has a designer friend who would be happy to make up a logo for you..."

"Well, I'll certainly ask about it. Thank you, Miss Clara, your assistance is invaluable."

"Happy to do it. Mr. Bethlehem--or I suppose it's Dr. Bethlehem, isn't it?--has quite a voice," she said in a little bit of a flutter. "Even if it is only murmuring scary stories. Has he considered reciting a love poem or two? I'm pretty sure he'd have a riotous female fanbase after just a few syllables."

Enoch lifted an eyebrow at her and smiled. "I shall certainly pass your input along to him."

"Oh, that's right," Miss Clara grinned. "Never mind, then. Maybe scary stories is the way to go, if we want to keep his attention where it belongs..."

"I am completely certain I left my phone at home today," Enoch said suddenly, patting his pockets. "No calendar. Hm. Don't I have just a bundle of meetings today? Perhaps you could read them aloud to me, Miss Clara?"

She let out a bright laugh and left him in relative peace to handle the last-minute harvest issues.

Wonderful woman.

Absolutely wicked.

***

Detective Aloysius Frugg balled up his hamburger wrapper and sat back in the booth, dragging his iced tea closer together to him. “Tode, all I know is that the captain’s going to make sure we catch again. This one’s dead. I suggest you let it go.”

Detective Benjamin Tode scowled and cupped a hand around the end of his cigarette as he lit it. Technically the place was non-smoking, but Irene behind the counter had a voice that spoke to her fifty years as a loyal customer of the Marlboro company, and since she was the only one here, Detective Tode found it pretty unlikely that he’d get any flack about it.

"He's got the opportunity. All the signs point to him," Detective Tode insisted.

"What few there are. What's the motive? What's the means?"

"I don't know."

"You know it isn't a psycho job. They're sloppy. There'd've been something, anything, that we'd have found by now. The place is clean. He's a scapegoat, can't defend himself. It's clear as day. He's an elderly weirdo, Ben, and that's it. We're not looking in the right direction."

"Ghad damn it, Al," Detective Tode drawled in a tired, annoyed tone, "people don't just disappear! Kids don't just disappear! We got more missing people than we got bodies, and they gotta be somewhere!"

"And you know where we're going to find them?" Detective Frugg asked. "In a ditch. In the woods, fifteen miles from here. Out in the fuckin' boonies, Ben, this kind of thing doesn't stick around. It's textbook whack-job shit, man, and we're going to find them torn to pieces in a swamp before we find them in the basement of a nose cancer shut-in."

"Is it nose cancer?"

"Who the shit knows, man, you know what I mean."

"The old man was saying he's seen kids go in..."

"First off, the old man is goddamn insane."

"You got some fuckin' sack. He was the shit when we were just outta the academy."

"Yeah, and what's he doing now? Ain't no goddamn police work. Vigilante shit, at best, Ben, because he lost it in '02. He's just got an axe to grind, that's all."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, so say he saw something," Detective Frugg said. "Say he actually sees kids goin' in. You know what I see? I see the girl visiting Bethlehem, and I know for a fact she's running around after some of the neighborhood kids with the redhead. She's fuckin' babysitting, Al, and brings them by as a thing to do."

"Without the parents knowing?"

"Shit, like you didn't get up to nothing. I know you had like fifty goddamn siblings, and I bet you got rid of 'em however you had to. And the old man...well, maybe he sees it, maybe he doesn't. He's moving around, he sees 'em come in, and misses 'em when they sneak out again. In any event he sure doesn't call no police, does he? He doesn't barge in and handle it. He doesn't do fuckin' anything except tell us hours later."

"Fuck."

"There's your opportunity, Ben: it stacks up to nothing. Because we watched that fucking house for three weeks, Ben, and nobody did nothing or saw nothing. For three fuckin' weeks. Just the mayor of Pottsfield coming by every Friday--which, fuckin' search me on that one--and the girl coming to visit and the long walks at night. We searched the house, Ben. There's nothing there."

"I just..." Detective Tode tapped the ash onto his plate. "It's not adding up, Al. It doesn't make any sense."

"I know, brother," Detective Frugg said. "I hear ya. You think it's not keeping me up nights?"

"People don't just disappear."

"It's predatory. Mobile. And it's happening near the woods," Detective Frugg pushed, prodding the table with his index finger. "That's why Bethlehem looks good, because he's right there and you can't see shit for dick around those big hedges."

Detective Tode took a slurp of coffee. "So that's the missing kids. Just snatched."

"Just snatched."

"And those freakshows in the graveyard? The vacant lot?"

"Vacant lot's not quite the same MO. We had two real tight together in May and June but then nothing until September. It's a copycat."

"Or it's the same person."

"In which case they're changing up their style and more importantly they're _mobile_ ," Detective Frugg insisted. "They're moving around, man, think about it. We need to be looking at people who took a fucking vacation or something between June and September, and look for sick shit popping up where they went. The rate of consumption's all wrong. You can't kill that often in one place. We'd've seen something. Mr. MS Recluse--"

"Is it MS?"

"I don't give a shit! He can't move around enough to do it. We did the whole background check, he's fuckin' destitute even if he wanted to leave the house."

Detective Tode frowned and took another drag on the cigarette. They fell silent.

"Goddamn that thing smells good," Detective Frugg said at last.

Detective Tode smiled thinly and reached for his pack. "Want one?"

"Nah. Shelly's on me about my health--'swhy I'm drinking this green tea shit instead of a cup of coffee like a Christian. And I'm wearing like forty nicotine patches under this thing, man, I'm lookin' like a fuckin' leper."

"Gotta get you a vape, man. They're faggy but I think it'd suit you."

Detective Frugg gave him the finger and grumbled good-naturedly. "Let's just catch again, man. Let Bamaville Pee-Dee find 'em and we'll look into it when we get the wire. But there's nothing left to do here."

"Crass, Al, fuckin' crass."

"I hear ya. I don't like it, either. I wanted to nail this motherfucker to the wall, Ben, and you know I did. I got a stake in it."

Detective Tode nodded solemnly. Detective Frugg had kids, a whole little pod of 'em. Shelly was hard as nails, making a family out of a detective. Detective Frugg might be a fuck sometimes but he cared about people and he didn't want his babies growing up in a world were they could just disappear and never be found.

"I know you do." Detective Tode threw back the rest of his coffee. "Fuck it. We'll catch."

"All right," Detective Frugg said. "Captain'll be glad to hear it. He might not throw us out on our asses, now."

"I hate that fucker when he's smug," Detective Tode grumbled, pulling out his wallet and slapping a few greenbacks on the table, plus a little extra for Irene. They didn't make them like Irene anymore.

"Yeah. Let's get it over with. I gotta step out soon anyway. One of the kids has a thing and Shelly's still on me to get you to dinner."

"I keep telling you I'm good Mondays through Thursdays."

"Your funeral, man. Tuesday it is."

They left the restaurant and shortly thereafter the case.

They caught some pretty basic ones not long after, and Shelly got Detective Tode to sit down at her dinner table, and some of Detective Frugg's babies started growing up.

But every now and then, after a particularly ugly day cleaning up the morbid and cruel wastes of humanity, Detective Tode would find himself unable to sleep, and would stare at the ceiling of his studio apartment for most hours of the night, thinking about that poor little lantern hanging from a graveyard tree.


	9. Guest Room

“So you fired him?”

“Of course I did,” Beast replied. “Did you not hear? He assaulted me.”

Enoch sat up the straighter. “Assaulted you? I thought he only--”

“Only? Touching me against my will and leveling an accusation of murder against me doesn’t smack of the thing to you?” Beast snorted. “He all-but claimed I killed his daughter.”

Enoch cupped his chin in his hand and lifted his eyebrows a bit.

Beast rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t peer at me so. I’ve no idea if I did or not but I sincerely, sincerely doubt it. And even if I had, it would’ve been so long ago that it’s not as if it would’ve been personal.”

“Some people just don’t know how to let a grudge go,” Enoch sighed.

“My point precisely. In any event, he is no longer in my service and I have freed up that much more of my time and resources, to say nothing of my peace of mind, and I can hardly imagine that that would be to my detriment.”

“You will have to get another gardener, I expect…”

“Yes, but I can winter very handily here. I had him build a stockpile of firewood during the spring and summer months and once it’s cold enough to wear a ski mask out of doors I’ll be able to fend for myself a little better,” Beast said. “It can all wait until Spring.”

“I’ll start looking for a list of candidates, if that’s helpful. I’m sure we can find someone reliable who won’t try and dig about in your dirty laundry.”

“What luxury! Can you even imagine, having a little privacy now and then?” Beast chirped. His right index finger flicked rapidly against the machine before him. “Now, as to this...why exactly would I want to touch the screen instead of using a mouse?”

They were sitting at Beast’s kitchen island, noshing on half-homemade charcuteries and enjoying the meager warmth that came from the hot drinks and each other’s proximity. Enoch knew the house was becoming quite cold, despite the fire in the fireplace and the closed windows and doors, but he found himself quite comfortable in his suit jacket. It must be a trial for Beast, however, who certainly did not have the warm layers of insulation to protect him from the elements.

Beast had to win the next bet. Enoch wanted to take him somewhere warm and cozy.

Enoch peered over Beast’s shoulder to consider the tablet sitting on the table. “I’m given to understand that it’s an intuitive means of interacting with the device.”

“Hm. And why is it not registering my touch?”

“I believe your gloves may have something to do with it.”

“Hm,” Beast said, still more severely, and folded his arms across his chest. Enoch smiled at him. “Then we are at an impasse.”

“Perhaps,” Enoch said. He took a sip from his steaming cup of mulled wine and reached into the bag sitting on the stool next to him. He withdrew a thin box and placed it on the table beside Beast.

His host looked at it and then at him, eyes narrowed. “Enoch…”

Enoch smiled his most innocent smile and filled his mouth with more wine so that he could not be called to explain himself.

Beast heaved a sigh and reached out to open the box. Lying on a thin pillow of white tissue paper were a pair of slender black leather gloves.

“Unbelievable,” Beast huffed.

“Happy early Halloween.”

“Halloween is not a gift-giving holiday.”

“Do you not consider free candy to be a gift?”

“In what world are gloves considered candy?” Beast snapped.

“It’s a small token of my esteem.”

“I am _drowning_ in small tokens of your esteem,” Beast replied. He picked one of the gloves up. “I suppose the gracious thing to do would be to accept them with sincere thanks and enjoy them to their fullest.”

“That sounds about right, yes,” Enoch agreed. “So what will you do, instead?”

Beast snorted and stroked his fingertips across the supple leather. “Demand to see a receipt.”

“Would you believe I mislaid it? I’ve no idea where my head is these days.”

“How much, Enoch,” Beast insisted.

Enoch thinned his lips, frustrated. “Please, Beast. It’s a pleasure--”

“For you, perhaps,” Beast said lightly. He looked at Enoch. “I’m not ungrateful, Enoch, but you must understand how tedious it is, to be obliged to be constantly grateful and never have the opportunity to be gracious.”

“You’re not looking at this the right way. How many free meals have you plied me with, Beast? How much musical entertainment--why, if you were anyone else in the world, that level of professional performance would set me back hundreds of dollars an evening, and rightly so.”

“That is considered being hostly--”

“And I am grateful to you for it. Please. Let me give you a gift. Without it, it makes my prize completely useless.”

Beast tilted his head. “And what makes you think I’m not reluctant to take the gloves for that purpose alone?”

Enoch grinned. “Won’t you at least try them on? I’m curious to see if I got the size right.”

Beast pinched the tip of his right middle finger. “Close your eyes.”

He didn’t want to, but Enoch obeyed his host. For extra measure, he lifted one hand and placed it over his eyes, and listened to the soft sounds of Beast stripping his gloves and sliding into the soft, faintly squeaky leather.

“You may open them again,” Beast said. “Thank you.”

Enoch opened his eyes to see Beast still pulling on the wrist of the right glove. It was tight, very tight, against his hand, and the leather stretched as he flexed his fingers. Enoch could see how much more whole Beast’s right hand seemed to be, in comparison to the left. 

“I have only one missing finger, if you must know,” Beast said, examining the motions of his own hands as he rubbed them across each other, lacing his fingers briefly and brushing the palms and backs across one another before rubbing his fingers together. “Two stumps, and seven whole digits.”

Enoch blushed a little.  “I beg your pardon.”

“Not at all. I suppose it’s a good thing for you to know. This way, you won’t run the risk of buying me any rings.” Beast gave him a look. “Or the risk of thinking yourself very discreet.”

Enoch grinned sheepishly. “I apologize, Beast. I’m afraid you’re a Pandora’s box to me, but it’s no excuse for rudeness. I don’t mean to let my curiosity get ahead of me.”

“I’m happy to report that you rarely do,” Beast admitted. He curled his hands into the tightest fists he could and released them. “I can think of very few people who would restrain their inquisitiveness so well, and I should mention that I do appreciate your efforts. Just remember that in this case, as was certainly true in the case of Pandora, an ounce of prevention is vastly more valuable than a tonne of cure.”

“So there’s no hope, then?” Enoch asked with a smile.

“None. Believe me when I tell you there is nothing within to tantalize you or to ameliorate the effects of witnessing horrors.”

Enoch sipped his wine and said nothing, because any comfort would be rightly rejected and any assurances that Beast could not possibly be more wrong would require a number of explanations too tender to be broached on an empty stomach.

Beast slipped his hand beneath his veil and did something to cause the leather to make a soft creaking noise. He breathed deeply and Enoch watched as he tilted his head back to exhale.

“I do love that smell,” Beast admitted.

Enoch breathed in and caught the faint, clean fragrance of new leather. He smiled and watched Beast flex his hands a few more times before he struck the tablet screen with one of his wary, cautious little pecks.

This time, the application responded.

“Ah,” Beast said. “I think I see. Well. I’m going to need an email address, aren’t I?”

“It would be a good first step, I think, yes,” Enoch said. “Here. We’ll see what’s not taken…”

***

Herod did not like the tablet, or so he very sternly told himself. He’d objected and argued and fought and disagreed, and insisted that the legitimacy of Enoch’s claim was defunct, and that there was no way he could amass 200 downloads in a mere five days, but in the end he yielded to the unwanted presence of the wifi adapter with as much grace and dignity as he could.

But he didn’t like it.

He did not like that the first thing Enoch did with it was to send him a text message with his own number, and then rather immediately a few commonplaces from a Pottsfield Sunday. (After that first, fraught Sunday breakfast, Enoch chose to visit him around 11am for more of a brunch after church. Beast pointed out that it did seem to be a rather acrobatic stretch of one’s reading of the Great Commandment if one particularly loved one’s neighbor braised with a balsamic reduction, but Enoch only chuckled at him and had another bite of “ham.”)  Now he could not avoid the man, even when they were an hour's drive apart.

He did not like that Lorna somehow immediately found him and send him an inordinate quantity of small cartoon faces and refused to explain what they were or where she'd got them.

He did not like the Snapchat at all. Not when he lost Enoch’s first message because he wasn’t touching the screen, because that was a stupid glitch to have on a program. Not when the next one was a picture of the man himself looking off-screen with the setting sun making his eyes breathtaking above whatever tart comment he’d included and Herod couldn’t save it in time. Not when Lorna found him there, too, and sent him pictures of herself with a broom and a pout and half a dozen colons and open-parentheses.

He did not like all the television shows that were available, and still less the news that television was rapidly going out of style. He didn’t like how little he knew of the past twenty years: when did Fraiser begin to look so very gauche and dated? He did not like ‘Googling’ the names in his old address book and seeing too many obituaries, or worse, too few.

And he outright loathed the idea of Facebook.

In the interests of candor he found himself obliged to admit that it wasn’t all bad, but any merits he discovered were hardly to the device’s credit. Still, there were some things he liked. He liked the library of podcasts available at his fingertips and he liked the way he could read a newspaper for the first time in many years, for free. He liked that grocery stores would take orders of food and schedule door-to-door deliveries. He liked Project Gutenberg very, very much, and the fact that his library could loan electronic versions of books which could be read on this horrible slender device.

He liked how he could read the comments on _Phantasmagoria_ , although he really had to change that horrible name. He liked seeing five stars on a review, seeing “horrifying” and “a must-listen” in the comments. He even liked the long, rambling review written by an elderly woman who’d seen him performing Bluebeard’s Castle, once.

He liked that a search of his name turned up glowing reviews from the 90s, along with some controversy and mystery, even as he almost failed to recognize the headshot that looked back at him.

But he didn’t like it. He didn’t like his reaction to it. He didn’t like the way he brought it up to bed with him when he’d decisively intended to leave it downstairs. He didn’t like the way he watched the three little dots that told him that Enoch was writing to him. He didn’t like the way he lurched up in bed when it began to glow at night or the way he found himself smiling when he saw whatever snapshot Lorna had sent him of her little adventures.

He didn’t like it at all.

***

The phone rang six times and Enoch was just about to send a text when he heard the telltale click of the bell rising from the hook.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Lorna. Is Mr. Bethlehem at home?”

“Oh, Mayor Barnes! Yes, I think he is...just one moment, let me dig him up.”

Enoch smiled and played with a pencil between the tips of his fingers, listening to the girl’s faint, retreating footsteps.

“Good evening, Enoch,” Beast purred, not more than a few moments later. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I like to make my regrets as personally as possible,” Enoch replied. “I’m afraid Friday is impossible for me this week. It completely slipped my mind.”

“Ah,” Beast said quietly. Enoch flattered himself that his friend sounded perhaps just the slightest bit disappointed. “Now that you mention it, I suppose it is rather incredible that a man as busy as you could manage to keep so many Friday evenings as free as you have done. Perhaps we were just getting a little spoiled.”

“Perhaps so. I suppose I don’t have much to complain about. It’s not really business, this time.”

“I doubt that. For a man in your position, even social events must be of incredible professional significance.”

“Mm,” Enoch said.

“You will be missed, though. I would be lying to say I hadn’t had a little something up my sleeve for Halloween.”

Enoch grinned, feeling his stomach dip pleasantly. “Oh, really?”

“Nothing very exciting,” Beast replied. “But something...tasty, I think.”

“Well, now…” Enoch hummed. “I’d absolutely hate to break our streak, all other considerations aside. Tell me. Would you like to come to a costume party?”

Silence.

Then, “Pardon?”, spoken in the extremely careful and somewhat terrified tones of one who'd just heard the ice on a frozen lake cracking beneath their feet.

“It’s a costume party at the town meeting house,” Enoch said. “The whole town will be there, I’m sure, and all of them dressed up. You would be very well received, if you’d like to come.”

“I…” Beast stopped himself. “Invited, you say? Just to be clear. To a party?”

“Yes.”

“Enoch, my...manners are--perhaps--not what they once were.”

“I remember them being very correct,” Enoch said with a smile. “And they remain so.”

“I am talking about warmth of personality, Enoch, not social niceties,” Beast said quickly. “I am not a friendly man. I am certain I will be an oddity. I would not wish to offend.”

“The fact that you are so scrupulously concerned with the impression you will give, rather than the pleasure you will yourself derive from the evening, is rather telling. That is most certainly not a ‘no,’ my friend.”

Beast did not reply.

“If you want to come, only say so,” Enoch coaxed. “I want you here. I am sure my friends will be thrilled to meet one of whom I have spoken so much and so glowingly.”

“Oh, that’s an expectation I can’t wait to disappoint,” Beast said in an undertone.

Enoch chuckled. “Shall I pick you up at five, then?”

“I warn you now, Enoch, it’s been a long time. I cannot speak to the quality of my performance as the night wears on.”

“Oh, I’m sure that as long as we fill you with a good meal, you won’t feel the need to nip anyone…”

“Not that,” Beast tsked impatiently. “I mean I will grow tired.”

“Well, if that’s all!” Enoch chuckled. “Stay the night, then.”

“Mayor Barnes,” Beast hummed, “what will the neighbors say?”

“Two agreeable, distinguished gentleman bachelors sharing a roof for a night? Why, they’ll never even blink.”

The gossip it would inspire was going to be a treat.

“So you say, but I only caution you out of--”

Enoch laughed. “I’m not going to rescind my invitation, Beast, even if you could make me want to. And you can’t. So would you like to attend, or no?”

Beast let him dangle for an instant or two, and then said, “Five o’clock is fine.”

“Excellent,” Enoch chirped, very satisfied. “See you then.”

***

She was no Sarah, no, but Lorna was still someone Wirt liked very much. She was pretty, and sweet, and she needed his help; and he had to admit that he’d never had anyone need him, or at least no one whom he'd really wanted to help. (Greg was six years old. It just wasn’t the same.)

Wirt would stop by Lorna’s house more days than not, now, because that’s where Beatrice liked to bring Greg in the afternoons. The girls would be talking, or more likely Lorna would be working while Beatrice perched on the stoop and watched her.

She really should be working _with_ Lorna. Wirt couldn’t figure out why it didn’t seem to occur to Beatrice that Lorna might need help, but Beatrice always had been a little sarcastic and selfish. Perhaps that was all.

Lorna always smiled to see him, and he knew he went an embarrassing shade of pink, still unused to pretty older girls smiling at him.

He and Greg tried to stay out of the sight of Lorna’s Auntie Whispers, of whom Lorna seemed almost terrified. The woman was strange and harsh with Lorna when it came to chores, and Wirt frowned to think of her, wondering what their household was like when he and Greg weren’t there.

It was a half-day for the county schools, and since Ms. Whispers worked during the day, Wirt grabbed Greg from the elementary school and led them over to Lorna’s, to see if there was anything they could do to help her out.

Lorna was mopping the kitchen floor and looking pale and wan when they arrived. Wirt waved at her and tapped on the kitchen window. She looked up with a startled gesture and smiled tiredly at them when she saw them.

“Hi, Lorna,” Wirt said when she opened the window. “You okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “Hello, Wirt, Gregory. I’m sorry, there’s just so much that has to be done today, and I’m so hungry…”

“We already had lunch!” Greg said. He reached into his lunchbag and pulled out a squashed tuna fish sandwich. “You can have mine if you want! I gave Thomas Jefferson--”

“The frog,” Wirt interjected, lest the young woman think they went about the world dispensing bits of lunch to dead presidents.

“--a bite of it, and he thought it was good!”

Lorna went a little green at the sight of this frog-gnawed sandwich and shook her head, covering her mouth with her hands and leaning away from the sill.

“You really haven’t eaten yet?” Wirt asked, his brow furrowing.

“It’s my illness,” Lorna replied. “I...can’t seem to keep anything down today. How are you?”

Wirt waved away the question. “You should really be resting, y’know.”

“Oh, but there’s so much to do, and I have so many errands…”

“Like what? We can help.”

Lorna smiled a little. “Oh, you’re so sweet. But...perhaps there is something you can do…” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I think I should introduce you to one of Auntie Whispers’ friends. She asked me to do some work for him today, and maybe you could help me clean a chimney or two?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

Lorna gave him a relieved, grateful look. “Thank you, Wirt. Let me just get myself together.”

Wirt waited by the stoop, shifting his weight and tapping his feet. Greg stood nearby, happy enough to be entertained by his pet frog, which was far and away the most docile amphibian Wirt himself had ever seen.

Lorna emerged from the house in a light jacket and a scarf wrapped around her head. Her hands were sunk deep into her pockets and she shivered a little as she walked. “Come along, my turtles. It’s a short walk.”

They trotted down Hawthorne Street and across a few blocks before stopping at Edel Avenue and walking up to what Wirt had grown up thinking of as the neighborhood haunted house.

“Wait,” Wirt said, eyeballing the half-dilapidated Victorian house with trepidation. “Your aunt’s friend lives in there?”

“This is the witch house!” Greg said, delighted.

“What? Oh, no, he’s not a witch. He’s very nice.”

“Does he eat squirrels?” Greg asked.

“No! How silly you are today, Gregory.”

“Uh...huh,” Wirt said slowly. “Is this the same guy who was having tea with your aunt a few weeks ago? I’ve seen him doing some garden stuff around the house, but I guess I thought he was from the county...?  How does your aunt know him, again?”

Lorna laughed softly, holding Greg’s hand and leading him up the brick walk. “My goodness, Wirt, I’m sure they’re just friends. I think they met a few years ago, I’m not really sure how.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Wirt followed hesitantly.

Lorna and Greg bounced up the front steps and Greg pressed the doorbell. They waited for a few minutes, but no one appeared.

Lorna frowned and shifted her arm, looking at her wrist watch. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, he’ll certainly be in the garden right now. Come around to the back.”

Greg seemed happy enough to be tugged along and followed Lorna cheerfully. They passed through an ornamental gate and rounded the house, Wirt looking uneasily at its strange mixture of solidity and deprivation, and came at last to a garden that had once been surely very lush but which was now gone to twigs and brown.

Standing near one of the tattered and terrible ornamental trees was a tall, gaunt figure dressed in black. Wirt swallowed thickly and nearly squeaked when the figure’s head turned and a dead silver face looked at them. This was most definitely not the old man in overalls and a cap that Wirt had seen tending the garden before.

“Wow,” Greg said in a tone of hushed fascination, “he really is a ghost!”

A huge dog lurched from the sickly underbrush of the backyard and started prowling towards them, growling. The figure faced them full on and made a signal to the dog, who sat down and stopped growling. The figure clasped his gloved hands in front of himself and took one step towards them.

“Lorna,” he said, in a deep, rich voice. The hairs on the back of Wirt’s neck rose as he watched the dog lower its head and glower at them. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello, Mr. Bethlehem,” Lorna said, breathing a little heavily. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Lorna, you okay?” Wirt asked. He reached for her and rested his hand on her back.

“My dear child,” Mr. Bethlehem said, “won’t you take a seat?”

“Oh, thank you,” Lorna said, brushing her fingers across her forehead. “It’s nothing, really nothing. Mr. Bethlehem, these are Wirt and Gregory.”

“A pleasure,” Mr. Bethlehem said, inclining his head. “How do you do.”

“Uh,” said Wirt.

“Auntie Whispers said you needed a little help cleaning out your chimney?” Lorna asked.

“Ah. I do, yes,” Mr. Bethlehem said, “but you don’t look well at all. Won’t you sit on the porch for a moment or two, and take some rest?”

“I can’t,” Lorna replied. “You know how my auntie feels about me resting during the day--”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bethlehem said, nodding his strange head. “That’s quite right. Well, as to the chimney, I...thank you sincerely for your time, but I think I’d rather wait just now.”

“Really?” Lorna said, looking surprised. “Only we’re just here, all of us, together. And it’s no trouble to just get it done quickly, when we’ve got plenty of hands…”

“We want to be sweeps!” Greg interjected. “We’ll make it clean as a whistle, guv’nor!”

“Yes, I appreciate you coming over very much,” Mr. Bethlehem said. “It’s very kind of you to do so, especially with _almost_ no notice. But I’m afraid I will not be able to make much use of my hearth in the next few days, and I shouldn’t like the work to go...rotten in the meanwhile.”

Wirt didn’t think that something like a cleaned chimney really could go rotten, but since he was currently staring at a faceless man who ostensibly owned this dilapidated house, he decided that perhaps there was some room for a little eccentricity at the moment.

“Oh,” Lorna said. She looked disappointed and maybe a little embarrassed. Wirt frowned. They really had to get her something to eat. “I see. Then we’ll just come back another time.”

“Please do,” Mr. Bethlehem said earnestly. “I’d appreciate your help very much. Especially the little one’s. He looks to be just the right size.”

Lorna gave Mr. Bethlehem a quick smile and took Greg’s hand again. Wirt turned slowly to follow them as they retreated back down the side of the house.

Every time he looked over his shoulder, he could see Mr. Bethlehem watching them go.

***

Installed in the handsome, comfortable guest room of Grange Barnes, Herod contemplated himself in his costume once again. He did so very much enjoy these cooler months. It was finally socially acceptable to cover one’s face in public, and one go could unseen all night long, when most people disdained to be out of doors.  The agony of winter chill and the near-starvation of fresh vegetables was not too steep a price to pay. 

Lorna had seemed only too pleased by his weekend plans, once she knew what they were. It had pained him to have to raincheck the ‘chimney cleaning,’ for goodness only knew if she’d get the drop on the children again so easily, but he couldn’t condone it when he wasn’t at all sure that he’d be able to make any use of them, fresh as they were. It was awful, to have to throw fresh meat straight into the freezer, and in any event they would be wise to restrain themselves just a little while longer.

With many an inexplicable semicolon and close-parenthesis Lorna instructed him to enjoy himself and assured him that she would take Turtle out and look after him for the evening. He was going to have to do something to thank her.

He flexed his hands and hummed to himself, stretching the muscles and cracking the knuckles before carefully wrapping them in bandages. A few twigs and some liberal wrapping were good enough prosthetics for the fingers of his left hand, provided he didn’t make a fist, and although he would have to fake right-handedness for the night it shouldn’t be too difficult to endure however many handshakes the people of this town required.

As he dressed, he quietly quizzed himself on what details he could remember from Enoch’s endless tales.

“Miss Lulilly, dog-breeder, is attached to Parson Bleak, who is planning a benefit supper with Mrs. Stringer, who is the sister of Miss Elizabelle, librarian, who has an intrigue opposed to the historic society’s grande dame, the Widow Mathers, who is not to be trusted with anything sharper than a ballpoint pen, and upon whose deep pockets rely, among others, Mr. Pearson, an indifferent fire chief and world-class tomato-farmer, and Mr. Green, who runs the grocery store, at which works my sound editor, which is to say Miss Clara Deen’s brother, a young man who by all appearances is primarily tasked with disposing of the trash, the dumpsters being next to the police station run by Commander Brown, an incorruptible…”

On and on. But it was good to know it. People liked to have things known about them, and the most important thing tonight was that he appear to be as charming as anyone could ever expect or desire.

Somewhere away in the house a clock rang six thirty. Herod retrieved from his valise a small bottle of cologne and very carefully atomized a tiny cloud of the scent into the air before him and stepped into it.

“The sixth sick sheik’s sixth sheep’s sick,” he said to himself, and repeated it, dropping into a lower register. Radio voice, tonight. Elegant. Accessible. Smooth. No stammers, no fillers. It must sound perfect.

Herod rolled his neck and shoulders, examining himself in the standing mirror for any bared sliver of skin, memorizing his maximum range of concealed motion. Even if his mask was knocked off or somehow removed--God forbid--there was a black drape covering him from forehead to throat, just thin enough to see through.

He nodded to himself. It was enough. It was going to have to be enough.

Suddenly there came a tapping and Herod turned away from his contemplation of his appearance to address his chamber door. He advanced; paused. Took a deep breath and thought of stage lights, of the pulsating living engine of the orchestra waiting to coil around his voice, and of the luxurious, effortless wriggle of his soul as he slid into the skin of another person and sang their horror and their lust.

It had been so very long since he’d last performed.

He opened the door to his host.

Enoch Barnes was a ceaseless source of wonder, and all the more so because he did not only operate at the extremes of pleasurable surprise and ghastly shock. Honestly Herod had no idea what he’d been expecting for his host’s costume, but somehow a jaunty hand-knit kelly green beret, a massive orange sweater, and face paint reminiscent of a Jack o’Lantern was not it at all.  And, naturally, he carried it off with aplomb.

Enoch took one look at him, a long, thoughtful, up-and-down affair that never failed to make Herod’s chest tighten. Enoch cracked a broad grin that crawled, centipedal, from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Robert W. Chambers,” Enoch identified. “Very clever.”

Herod flourished his arms just a bit and bowed. “I admit I am just a bit impressed that you knew it so quickly.”

“It’s a distinctive look, with the Pallid Mask. Very fetching indeed. You will sing Cassilda’s song, won’t you, Beast?”

“Does it have a tune?” Herod asked, stepping into the hall and shutting the door behind him. “It’s nothing but a poem, without one.”

“However you want to define it,” Enoch shrugged, “I’m sure it would be a treat to hear, whether sung or spoken. My, but saffron is a lovely color on you.”

Herod found himself rolling his eyes. “Yes, it does so very much suit my complexion. How good of you to notice. May I ask what inspired you to paint your own face?”

“Tradition,” Enoch said, leading them down the steps. “I suppose it’s lazy, but after so many years I’ve gotten used to being a pumpkin and I haven’t any idea what else I would be if I wanted to change.”

Herod kept any contemplations of pumpkins turning into princes, or vice versa, to himself. Instead, he mutely followed as Enoch lead them out of the house and began to steer him towards the sidewalk and out into a Pottsfield twilight, looking towards the meeting house.

It turned out to be the annex of the First Pottsfield Congregational Church, settled just a few blocks down Main Street from Enoch's own home. Herod smiled quietly to himself at the overwhelming preponderance of scarecrow costumes he saw floating around. Nothing was quite so quaint as a harvest festival in the country. If there was any piece of this season of the dead more unsettling than him, he would eat his veil.

This smug conviction lasted only through the doors of the annex. One look at party quickly revealed to anyone who wondered just how much Pottsfield appreciated a ghoulish and startling Halloween.

The annex was something like a restored barn and as he and Enoch entered the main room he spotted plenty of costumed revelers lingering around a huge, sumptuously-laid table in the center of the room. To the side, children played little games, tiny astronauts and superheroes bobbing for apples and smearing fingerpaints on each other’s faces. A young woman dressed as Dorothy Gale sat by the other side of the room, manning a laptop. The device was connected to a set of speakers and a steady beat pulsed beneath the general rumble of conversation and the occasional bright sparks of laughter. Couples were dancing. The annex was open at the back and Herod could see the glow of a large bonfire just a few yards away.

More impressive, however, were the decorations. Oh, it was seasonal, but the last thing one expected to see amidst all this wholesome harvest merrymaking were the dozens of hideously realistic corpses peppered here and there throughout the room.  Herod's pulse hammered at the sudden sight of the rotted skin pulled back from foul teeth, the empty eye sockets staring shockingly out, the sunken cheeks and baggy, formless torsos. Some of these props were sat up in chairs, where they lay limp and were occasionally tugged on and accosted by small revelers. Some were carried around grown Pottsfielders, arms tossed across shoulders and waists gripped by strong arms even as their heads lolled. Others were danced with, talked to, kissed on the cheeks and held.

“Well,” Herod said, amused by his own silly fright. His heart, hammering as such ridiculously fake props, as if he were a child? How very credulous of him. “This is charming, Enoch, utterly charming.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Enoch replied, sounding very pleased with himself and his beloved town. “Can I fetch something for you to eat or drink?”

“My costume does not lend itself to the well-mannered execution of such activities,” Herod demurred, “but I appreciate your conscientiousness. It looks and smells delicious.”

Enoch gave him a little grin and waved his arm in a general welcome to the young Judy Garland impersonator as she approached. Herod smirked quietly to himself over the thought of Enoch being a Friend of Dorothy--perhaps there would be a Tin Man and a dandy Lion about, but in a town this size he rather doubted it.

“Miss Clara Deen,” Enoch said in an expansive sort of tone, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Herod Bethlehem. Mr. Bethlehem, Miss Clara Deen.”

“How do you do?” Miss Deen asked, offering her hand to him.

Herod took the girl’s hand in his own and bowed over it, before lifting it lightly to the lips of his mask.

“Enchanté, Miss Deen. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Your employer has sung your praises so highly that I have been absolutely wild to meet you.”

Miss Deen giggled in that peculiarly lovely tone unique to delighted young women. Herod enjoyed the noise enormously. It had been far too long since he’d last elicited it. The next sound he wished to acquire was the titter of one of the town’s spinsters. This boded well for his collection.

“My goodness,” Miss Deen said, taking that same hand back with a lingering little sway. “It surely can’t have been in excess of the raptures into which Enoch has been sent by your virtues…”

“Miss Clara has been the unfortunate victim of my unstudied enthusiasms on the subject of your culinary ability,” Enoch interjected.

“And I was the first fan of your wonderful readings,” Miss Deen added. “You’ve terrified me, Mr. Bethlehem--although I suppose it is Dr. Bethlehem?”

“It hasn’t been for many years. I entreat you, call me Herod,” he replied, waving a hand lightly. “But I’m honored that you find my little stories pleasurable.”

“Pleasurable? If that’s what you want to call sleeping with the lights on!” Miss Deen laughed. “I must find Clark and bring him by. Poor thing’s been sweaty all day over the the thought of meeting you.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Herod purred. “How delicious. But he really must have no fear of me, of course. I’m quite as eager to meet him. You can’t know what a fan I am of his work.”

Miss Deen covered her heart. “Goodness, but you do know just what to say, don’t you? Enoch did not exaggerate…”

Herod smiled behind his mask, watching the way the girl stood beside her boss. Neither made any attempt to touch the other--in fact, Enoch stood with one foot pointing towards Herod and the other at a ninety-degree angle, directed at the room at large. No particular focus there, and even when the girl seemed prepared to move on, Enoch made no move to dissuade her.

If Enoch was a liar, he was either a very good one or they were sufficiently serious and canny that they felt no need to devote all their attention to one another.

“You mustn’t believe him,” Herod said. “I’m very afraid he’d exaggerated for effect. Political sorts often do.”

“Don’t I know it,” Miss Deen grinned. “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

Herod bowed. Enoch gave her a wave that was more a little wiggle of the fingers than anything else and Herod watched as the girl wandered away.

“What a lovely child,” he observed to Enoch in an undertone.

“I’m glad you find her so,” Enoch said. “Ah. Let me introduce you to the Widow--oh. But I beg your pardon. She’s no such thing, tonight.”

Herod frowned at this extremely unusual statement but focused his attention on the elderly woman hobbling over towards them. She was dressed in an elaborate black gown and a small box hat with a fishnet veil. One hand wielded a cane, and the other clasped the hand of one of the decorations, this one attached to a wheeled stand.

“Enoch!” the not-Widow Mathers creaked, dropping the corpse’s hand and offering it to Enoch. “Good evening, dear boy.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Mathers--Mr. Mathers,” Enoch said warmly, shaking first the elderly woman’s hand and then that of the decoration. “A pleasure to see you! Happy Halloween to you.”

“Who’s this you’ve brought us?” Mrs. Mathers asked, peering birdlike at Herod.

“Mrs. Mathers, I’m very happy to present--”

“Oh, no, no, boy, no ceremony, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Mathers warbled. “No, it’s a party! We mustn’t be so fastidious about manners at a time like this. What is your name, pet, and that will be all.” She broke into a smile and extended her hand to Herod. “Such a costume! Very stylish indeed.”

“Thank you, madame. My name is Herod Bethlehem, Mrs. Mathers,” Herod said, taking her hand and pressing its knuckles to his mask’s lips. “A pleasure.”

Mrs. Mathers’ wasted cheeks turned a very slight pink and she giggled like a girl, drawing her hand away and placing it upon the corpse’s chest.

“Oh! Bless my soul, you’ll make a jealous fiend out of Howard! You be careful, Mr. Bethlehem, or he’ll surely put his glove in your face and I’m just not strong enough to hold him back!”

Herod glanced at Enoch, but the mayor seemed to see nothing out of the ordinary in this kind of statement and gave him nothing more than a look of vapid contentment.

“I beg your pardon, sir, if my admiration is in any way overly forward,” Herod said easily to the decoration, willing enough to indulge this absurd playacting. He took one of the thing’s withered claws and held it between both of his own. “A pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard so very much of your good works in the community.”

“There, now,” Mrs. Mathers said, jabbing an elbow out in Enoch’s direction. “That’s gentlemanlike stuff. He’s just what you said he would be.”

“Ah, yes,” Enoch laughed, sounding just a bit stilted. “But I’m glad I’ve caught you, Mrs. Mathers, because...”

Sensing that his role in the interaction was to stand nearby and look pretty, Herod tuned out of the conversation and focused turned the decoration he still held. His blood drained from his head at the sight of it.

He was a fool for being so easily startled. It was just that the craftsmanship was truly impressive. The baggy brownish skin, the bald head, puckered eyelids, the leathery cheek and the way the mouth hung, the ruined nose and thin lips, and the hands! The hands were remarkable. From the way all the fingers were whole and present and yet twisted and completely dry, to the starkness of the wrist bones and the fragile, bony arms; even the fingernails and knuckles seemed right. A perfect hand. The level of detail was astonishing.

Herod rubbed his fingers against the decoration’s skin and watched the way it responded to the friction from his bandages.

Oh.  This was not a plastic prop.

Herod looked up into the face of the decoration and abruptly dropped the hand, feeling his heart leap up into his mouth. He looked around, staring at the corpses petted, tugged, and kissed by children, the elderly men holding up the limp dolls as they swayed across the dance floor, and the bonfire glow that sometimes licked the headstones of the church yard and made them gleam in the outer darkness.

Goodness gracious.

Herod choked, his lungs spasming. Suddenly feeling rather weak, he reached out and felt his hand scrape across Enoch’s arm. He curled his fingers and drew himself close to that arm, feeling something ghastly working its way up through his chest, and dug into Enoch’s shirtsleeve with his other hand, tugging a little.

“Won’t you pardon us,” Herod said to the Widow (yes, very definitely a widow) Mathers, choking around his affliction. “I’m so sorry. I must steal him for a moment.”

“Beast?” Enoch murmured, sparing a hand to touch his back.

“Go on, go on, of course! I must see Miss Elizabelle anyway,” the Widow Mathers said, taking up Howard’s hand and drawing him away.

Enoch gave him a look of such tender concern that Herod almost believed he was wrong, just for a moment. That incredulity was just the trigger he needed and he did something he hadn’t done in years and years, having thought himself much too hardened by horror to have the need.

He was out of practice and realized that he probably sobbed and screeched and creaked for the first few bars, and that very badly, if Enoch’s expression of startled fear was anything to go by. But at last it evened out and felt quite a bit like what he remembered it being.

Enoch seemed to recognize the noise he made for what it was and his own beautiful mouth spread to show his white teeth in an unmistakable grin.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before, Beast,” he said, as at last Herod’s body could no longer sustain the harsh barking and it gave over to rapid little gasps. Herod released his grip on his host. “Certainly never like this, at least.”

“It’s been--” He panted, feeling embarrassment welling up to boil his blood. He could not tell if he was being stared at, in the dimness with music throbbing and conversations still humming around him. “--a very long time. How is this possible, Enoch?”

“I’m not quite sure myself,” Enoch owned, smiling down at him. “I think it has something to do with the soil. We have the devil’s own time getting fertilizer into the crops, it gets eaten up and dried so fast. And years ago we only embalmed and cremated in the wintertime, and..." Enoch gave a vague little flick of his hand to the room, "...you can see what we discovered. It's mostly the older families that keep the tradition, of course, but we still end up with quite a few...well, call them mummies, I suppose.”

“And you trot them out to cherish on Halloween.”

“Yes. And marriages, if the families have any bodies in the churchyard.”

“Oh, are those the only occasions?” Herod asked wryly.

“Well, bringing them out for funerals would be redundant.”

Herod sniggered a little. “Incredible. Going to your first out-of-town Halloween must’ve been a shock.”

“I scandalized my fraternity brothers by going out to the boneyard with a shovel that first night, I do admit.”

Herod shook his head. “You ass. Had you any intention to telling me? Or were you just waiting to see what a fool I would make of myself on my own?”

Enoch’s smile grew very canny and sly. “I thought perhaps you would twig once I got you talking to the parson. He’s out back, of course, and--”

“Of course,” Herod breathed. “I must meet him, then. Escort me.”

“With pleasure.” Enoch offered his arm with a broad and teasing smile, and Herod disdained it with a haughty little wave of his wrist, walking with his hands pressed fingertips to fingertips and held just above his lap.

The parson was a mud-encrusted and jovial creature, whipcord thin and deceptively strong when he seized Herod’s hand in both of his and shook it with all enthusiasm, hoping that God would bless him for coming so far just to join their little party. The earth of the churchyard was almost entirely ripped up, empty caskets lying neatly beside open graves, patiently awaiting the return of their contents.  Orange bonfire light blazed over everything, showing the deep pits of the graves and the hills of dirt in a ghastly landscape.

Miss Lulilly and her still-undyed roots fluttered nearby, overseeing the bonfire and making sure every child had all the marshmallows it could possibly desire. She spared a moment to brush her cheeks against Herod’s mask and gush over his costume and all the good things she’d heard of him, before she whirled away once more, leaving him to boggle at the inexplicable physicality of the native Pottsfielder as she returned to her duties. A band played with their backs to the mountain of flame and more lively dancers than those inside capered and trotted around the bonfire, contorting themselves hideously in midair.

Next they met Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, who walked with Mrs. Pearson’s father slung between them. Herod honestly could not tell what level of playacting was considered ordinary, but Enoch greeted the living and the dead alike, and everyone seemed pleasant and unsurprised at each other’s warm reception.

Herod was whirled through conversation after conversation, talking with every scrap of faceless animation he possessed of azaleas and children’s books, dog-training and canning tricks, oenology for the curious bumpkin, knitting, bake sales, weddings, babies, Boy Scouts, budget restrictions, and grain feeds. Mending, window treatments, Danielle Steele, abstract art, cocktail parties, scandals, homecomings, military service, young lovers, and above all: Enoch Barnes.

Always, always Enoch Barnes. From Pearsons, Bleaks, Greens, Browns, Matherses, Stringers, Aspens, Deens, McPhersons, Wolfs, Howdens, Valencianos, and Zebs. Good Enoch Barnes, honest Enoch Barnes, dear Enoch, our Enoch, best mayor they'd ever had, four times in a row, even his old opponents loved him. No one worked harder, no one was sweeter, no one smarter and gentler and more on the button, no one represented them so well, understood the needs of the whole community. No one took care of his town and knew his station like Enoch. Always available and at your side if you needed him, never overbearing if you didn’t. Never superior, never proud--always out with the rest of the farmers of a summer weekend, ready to break his back with the families he’d grown up with. Good stock, the Barneses, and they had only the one left, but he was a good one.

Such a wit, such a charmer, such a gentleman--when would he be married, when would there be little Barneses, it was just what the community really needed. Oh, but Mr. Bethlehem must know all this already, the two of them being such good, old friends. He must know every bit of how wonderful Enoch was. Perhaps he knew if there were any ladies in Enoch’s life? Perhaps those famous dinner parties of his were just the kind of thing to bring a good woman and good babies to Pottsfield.

The stories they had to tell. When he was a boy--when he was young man--oh, don’t embarrass him, Father, remember just how good he was last year? How he solved such a crisis, how he handled those city-slickers in the capital, how well he oversaw every meeting, whether it was with accountants, farmers, unions, boards, or dinner parties.

The stories they didn’t know! Herod smiled to himself, thinking about the male escort dead in Enoch’s car, about Enoch's eagerness to observe a child’s gutting, about the way he purred over human flesh when carried to his mouth on an antique fork. Good, honest, excellent, sweet, thoughtful, clever, duplicitous, wicked, delectable Enoch Barnes. Such a delightful man. Such a dear man.

How we love him.

Herod watched Enoch through all of this, safe behind his mask and veil. Pottsfield’s love of Enoch could only be exceeded by Enoch’s own love of Pottsfield, it was plain. The man stood close to each of his interlocutors, hands clasping shoulders and exchanging kisses in greeting, his broad smile licked by firelight, more at home and happy where he was born than most people were privileged to be after a lifetime of searching.

What did Enoch think he was doing, jeopardizing all of this?

Even if Herod didn’t remember Enoch’s strange tastes from when they were both young, he would still have to admit that the man was terribly, terribly eccentric now. The nature of Herod’s diet did not permit men of traditional sensibilities to partake, and still less did the nature of Herod’s body permit them to so cavalierly dose him with his own medicine.  (God, how he still burned with shame, remembering how he’d blushed and stammered at the shameless, fearless press of his friend's lips, how that night his body had ached and pulsed from excitement and stupid longing!)

But how could Enoch be here, so happy, so safe and warm and in his element, and yet be as perfectly easy and comfortable in Herod’s home, complimenting him on his ability to cook and serve children very like the ones that ran about them here, shouting and occasionally getting their heads patted by their mayor? Sure, there was category violation, but then there was _this_ , and Herod found himself helpless to reconcile it. Where were the cracks by which to tell which was the façade? Where was the merest acknowledgement of contradiction?

Herod had long since given up being any sort of decent person, even before that first starving look at a healthy man, when he realized how he'd do anything to crush that strength and vigor between his teeth. Now, something very like guilt curled at the back of his throat. If he were truly a friend to this strange, cruel man, with a friend's concern for his well-being, Herod would terminate the acquaintance now. Enoch put himself in serious jeopardy, because Herod would never stop. He would not stop, as long as he was broken and pained and mortified by his disease and his position. He would always chase the youth and health of others and consume it, allow it to feed him and stave off worse dissolution. There was no place in that for a man with everything to gain and everything to lose, not when he was so surrounded by love and respect and joyful promise on every side.

It would be right. It would be a good deed, which was a precious rare possibility for a man who did the kinds of things Herod did.  Who knew when or if he would ever have the opportunity to do something good again?

But Herod had grown so very tired of eating alone. Now that he had Enoch, and to a lesser extent Lorna, coming to dine with him, he felt just how long his days were without his friend’s company. How he woke up eager every Friday morning, no longer electrified by the vapid, smug proposition of deceiving a cheerful patsy, but driven by the chance to perform for an educated and cogent palate! How he dithered and anticipated six o’clock, how he obsessed over his abilities and practiced and fine-tuned presentation after presentation, dreaming up menus and displays as he lay awake in bed!

Oh, it was pathetic, worse than pathetic, but he was just so buoyed up, so enamored by him…

And that was part of the danger, to be certain.  The only thing that ever came of that kind of admiration was crushing disappointment, just as the only thing that came from hope or expectation was sudden, terrible misfortune. For self-preservation alone, he would be wise to end it.

Herod laughed politely at some tedious pseudo-witticism that spilled from Mrs. Howden’s mouth and watched his host commune with his people just few feet away, animated by whatever story he was telling. Enoch’s eyes gleamed in the orange light, his hands graceful and huge and so powerful, so gentle as they flew at his sides and in front of him to illustrate his tale, his posture strong and confident and open. His face handsome and distinguished, mind bright and alive and inquisitive, humor fine and warm and clever. And above all, the titanic heart that throbbed in his chest, and within that heart the small rotten portion, like a black mold pulsing in those red chambers, exquisite and keen and eager to sip horrors from cut crystal.

Herod watched him; stared, really.

No.

He would not release him. Enoch would have to go, if he wanted to take himself out of danger. Herod had grown too used to him, too fond of him, to relinquish his company willingly and though he could offer nothing like the pleasure and security there was to be found in Pottsfield, he would not disdain to provide what he had.

So there could be no place for a monster like him in this particular fairy-tale; so what? It was nothing new, after all, for kings to visit strange fools and hermit sorcerers and yet be beloved by their subjects. This would be just another story in that fine tradition.

The band struck up something a little less suited to a ballyhoo and the musical change pleasantly coincided with Herod’s introduction to Miss Elizabelle. He offered his hand to her, bowing.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked, feeling something very like pleasure resonate through him as the librarian took his hand with an exuberant smile.  

"It'd be my pleasure," Miss Elizabelle sighed, holding his hand eagerly.  He had to smile, himself.  He had already touched so many people tonight, and he could only imagine their horror if they knew what was under the bandages on his hands and the mask over his face. 

He hadn’t waltzed in years, but he also hadn’t suffered through almost a decade of Christmas and New Year’s dances with Isolde to forget how to lead. Miss Elizabelle was a little clumsy and a little creaky, but the same could very much be said of him, so they talked about opera as they picked their way around; and wasn't it delicious, to find such an informed opinion where one least expected it? Miss Elizabelle clung to his shoulder with every sign of happiness and let him guide her, trusting him so completely when any moment he could've backed her into the fire and let her burn. But he kept her safe and upright and enjoyed her conversation, and every time he looked up he could see Enoch and Miss Deen in conference.

When the song ended, he found himself shanghaied by Miss Deen, and he spun her around while contemplating her silent, mischievous smile and the way she gamely met him for every turn and every step.

“You know,” she said at last, as they stopped to clap for the band, “I could really kill you for wearing a mask tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. After all Enoch’s said about you, I would just love to finally put a face to the stories,” Miss Deen said. “You’re teasing me.”

“I assure you, I intend nothing of the kind. Another dance, Miss Deen?”

“Why, Doctor, you flatter me,” the girl simpered, and took up his hand again.

Enoch, at last tearing away from a conversation with Commander Brown, ambled over. “I don’t suppose I could cut in?”

“Certainly,” Herod said, perfectly willing to yield to Enoch his _droits_ and recover Miss Elizabelle, who’d begun saying some fascinating things about Enoch’s past history with opera when they'd parted. He passed Miss Deen’s hand into Enoch’s and bowed to the girl before turning to Enoch. “Find me later?”

“Of course,” the mayor said with a wry smile.

Herod left the dancers and immediately ran into Mr. Clark Deen. The poor boy was indeed very sweaty, eighteen years if he was anything, and drowning in a cheap aftershave smell. They only spoke for few minuts, and in that time Herod could not be sure if the miserable irony of owing his newfound success to such a little nebbish had him more amused or appalled.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to debate it long. Halfway through one of the young man’s eager and somewhat frantic sentences, Enoch caught up with Herod and swept him away, begging Mr. Clark’s pardon but desperately desirous that Herod meet one or two more families before the evening drew to a close.

Hip-deep in a meticulous dissection of the merits or lack thereof in the recipes found on the back of a Hamburger Helper (a brand he had never used but felt confident he could extemporaneously bullshit upon with grace and wit), Herod looked up at last and saw that the annex had grown very empty. A huge hand touched his lower back.

“What do you think, Beast?” Enoch murmured. “Ready to head home?”

“If it’s not cutting the evening short for you,” Herod replied in an undertone.

“Not at all. We still need to have supper.”

Herod smiled to himself and they slowly, slowly made their exit, offering good-evenings to everyone they passed. At last they broke free into the cool air of the sidewalk and made their way back down Main Street, strolling slowly down the long flat avenue, its streetlamps burning dimly in the night.

“You are very, very well-loved,” Herod observed quietly. “Are you aware of it?”

“Hm?”

“I have never seen a man so much adored by his community,” he said, following as Enoch opened the front door. He allowed himself to be waved inside, shoulders slumping with relief at the sound of the door closing behind him. “In fact, the only moments I wasn’t bombarded with effusive praise of you were filled with your own raptures on the glories of your subjects.”

“No, no,” Enoch drawled, drawing him towards the kitchen and sitting room. “Rest your bones a while. I’ll have supper out directly. Surely you exaggerate.”

“I do not,” Herod replied, leaning on the kitchen island. “I really had thought it was only your personal peccadillo, to talk about the things you love so effusively, but it seems that you come by it still more honestly. If I can be a little crass--”

“Oh, I wish you would.”

“--they cannot shut up about you.”

Enoch emitted a pleased little noise. “Well, I love them very much, too, and as you know I can no more easily restrain my enthusiasm over them. I never have been able to. Where I love, I gush.”

“How sweet,” Herod hummed. He looked over the kitchen for a moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any time for me to change my mask?”

“Almost five minutes, I would say.”

“Splendid. Pardon me.”

The temptation to steal into the bathroom and have at that shower was almost unconquerable, but at the last he managed to only unwrap and wash his face and hands. He didn’t bother with the rest of his costume, for Enoch seemed equally willing to swan about in face paint, but he did put on his gold mask and veil and contemplate himself in the mirror.

Hm. Perhaps saffron was a good look, after all. The gold did add a little something.

He returned to the sitting room and eased himself down into one of the massive easy chairs, unable to resist a little sigh as the rich, plush leather conformed to him instantly, sinking him deep and surrounding him on every side. It was enough to make him want to fall asleep, and that was an urge he certainly had not imagined he’d have in any house but his own for many, many years.

“You will come to dinner Friday, won’t you?” Herod asked, head lolling back against the chair. “I think my little Halloween surprise will just keep until then, and I should hate to have enjoyed this holiday entirely at your expense.”

“Were you this difficult to spoil as a child? Or is this a more recent development?” Enoch asked, walking into the sitting room with a pair of dishes in one hand and a large tray in the other. He placed the tray, piled with seasonally-appropriate sugar cookies and a small hoard of small candy bars, on the coffee table, and passed one dish to Herod, who saw that it contained a stew spooned over a mountain of buttered egg noodles.

“I thought you knew that I sprang fully-formed from the head of Stravinksy.”

“I am confident that there must be a picture, somewhere, of tiny you in a cowboy hat and carrying a pumpkin basket, and you did not then disdain a treat or two, freely offered.”

Herod held a finger over his lips and said in a conspiratory tone, “Never a cowboy. But one year I was a bunch of grapes.”

Enoch barked out a little laugh and sat back on his sofa with one ankle propped on the opposite knee.

“I already can't wait for Friday, Beast,” Enoch said. “I’ve developed such a taste for a proper Halloween supper, and I’m certain that no one can make something quite as perfectly suited to the holiday as you.”

Herod smiled behind his veil.

***

“Uh, Lorna?”

“Yes, Wirt?” the girl asked. “Please hold still.”

“What, exactly, are you doing?”

“Fixing your costume, of course,” Lorna said. “I should think that was obvious.”

“The only thing is, uh, I think I’ve seen pictures of this guy, and his hat…”

“It’s a liripipe.”

“Well, it definitely doesn’t stick up like this.”

“Oh, that’s just a little starch. Once you’re outside it’ll be a whole different story,” Lorna assured him, adjusting the hat one more time. “I wish we’d been able to find a more convincing robe. You’re sure there was nothing but this blue cloak?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

Lorna shrugged her shoulders and looked about her. “Where did Gregory get to?”

“I think he’s in the kitchen,” Wirt said, “messing with his laurel crown.”

“I’m not messing with it,” Greg said, walking back into the living room. He had a teapot on his head and Lorna stared at him, trying to figure it out. “Benjamin Franklin--”

“The frog,” Wirt interjected.

“--wanted to wear leaves more than me, and all we need for a toga is a towel, so I thought I might as well go with my first idea and be an elephant.”

“Oh,” said Lorna in a doubtful tone. “That’s such a clever idea. But are you sure the frog will make a good Virgil?”

“Hey, Lorna,” Beatrice called from the guest room on the first floor. “Think you can help me with my costume?”

“Of course.” She gave Wirt and Gregory a rushed, Cinderellaean smile, and hurried into the other room.

Beatrice was waiting for her, sitting on the double bed in a cerulean blue gown made of overlapping gauzy folds. The neckline scooped to show her collarbones and wisped down her arms, and despite her short hair, the snakebite piercings on her lips, and the large plastic jewels around her neck and dangling from her ears, it was her smile, a sly and inviting one, that sold her portrayal of the character.

“Beautiful,” Lorna sighed, clasping her hands and just looking, as her heart beat tight and quick within her. “ _So_ worth a descent into Hell.”

Beatrice snorted and hiked an eyebrow up at her, standing up and turning around to let her see all. “It’s pretty ridiculous, Lorna. I don’t know how you talked me into it. Who actually goes as a namesake for Halloween? It's like someone named Steve just going as 'Steve.'”

“What on earth are you talking about,” Lorna said. “You look so radiant, dear. A more deserving namesake I cannot imagine. You are a heavenly Beatrice.”

Beatrice’s cheeks were red, but she struck a vampy pose. “And that ain’t all.”

“Ain’t it?” Lorna asked.

“I like this outfit because it’s versatile. I can drape it any way I like. And when I come back...maybe this will suit our own private girls-only Halloween.”

Lorna visibly swallowed, already chewing on the inside of her mouth. Beatrice gave her another wild smile and deftly plucked at what few fastenings held the gown to her. Lorna’s breath caught, her eyes widened, and she saw her dear Beatrice adjust the neckline to ride just above her nipples, so much tantalizing loveliness yet concealed but, thanks to her revealed décolletage, exquisitely bare beneath her gauzy gown.

“Oh, holy lady,” Lorna murmured softly.

Beatrice laughed and approached. Her smile ran through Lorna like a hot lance. “Yeah, okay. Is that what we’re calling this?”

“You’re going to freeze, darling,” Lorna said, even as her eyes roved eagerly, admiring the woman before her. Such supple skin, with her summer tan lines not yet completely faded, her shoulders beautifully freckled, her soft flesh making a mathematically flawless slope from collarbones to breasts.

“I’m tough,” Beatrice said, hedging her back against the door. “Besides, won’t it make for a fun little show for you, if I’m cold? You can wonder if I'm pierced there or not.”

“Oh dear,” Lorna breathed, folding her lips into her mouth as if that could stop her from wanting to kiss what stood so prettily before her.

“Well-put,” Beatrice hummed, and kissed her girlfriend.

Lorna reached out to touch her lovely face, cupping her jaw gently and passing her fingertips through the tight, clean crop of her red hair, bumping knuckles against piercings. Beatrice’s breath was warm where it fanned against her face and her lips were soft and smooth where they locked and pressed and retreated.

Lorna wrapped both arms around her and touched their foreheads together, nuzzling gently, rubbing her lower lip gently across Beatrice’s slick metal piercings. She turned her head to press her nose just beneath Beatrice’s jaw and inhale slowly, enjoying her fragrance of soap and skin and crisp apples.

“Oh, my...the burning hearts I would feed you,” Lorna breathed, running a hand down Beatrice's cheek and throat. She licked her lips, unsure if she regretted that the flavor of supper on her sweetheart’s lips had been replaced with minty toothpaste. Either way, to see her sweetheart happily swallow and enjoy Lorna's very special cooking...

“Hm?” Beatrice's voice rumbled against Lorna's nose where it pressed to her throat.  Lorna kissed her here and there along the slope as Beatrice nuzzled her, her hands petting her back and down towards her rump.

“It’s a sonnet,” Lorna said dismissively, touching with the jewels with one fingertip before stroking her collarbones. “Not as important as the ones I could write over you right now.”

“Get a pen, Steinbeck,” Beatrice replied, kissing her lips again and pressing herself so close, chest to chest, bellies rubbing. “Write me like one of your Italian girls.”

Lorna tried to chase those references for a few instants before her eyes crossed and she had to give up. “That was physically painful.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Beatrice said, but Lorna found she doubted her sincerity, because more kisses were forthcoming at such speed that they piled up on one another.

They stayed there against the door, happily kissing and touching, and had advanced just to the point where Beatrice was wringing a gasp out of Lorna by taking her lower lip between both of her own and applying the most titillating pressure Lorna had ever managed to imagine, when there came a particularly unwelcome knock at the door.

“Hey, Beatrice? Lorna? You guys ready?”

“Very nearly,” Beatrice grumbled in Lorna’s ear, rubbing her hips slowly forward to punctuate her statement. Lorna gasped again and curled her fingers in her girlfriend’s hair for an instant before releasing her.

“Yeah, Wirt,” Beatrice said in a louder tone, “we’ll be right out.”

“Okay…”

Beatrice sighed, kissed Lorna’s forehead, and gave her a last nuzzle before stepping away and letting Lorna breathe a little. Lorna smiled like a fool and fixed her hair behind her ears, before adjusting the somewhat frumpy dark green dress she was wearing.

“I still don’t think you look much like a witch,” Beatrice said.

“I’m not a witch. I’m a witch’s apprentice,” Lorna corrected. “Auntie Whispers is a witch this year.”

“Isn’t she always,” Beatrice grumbled.

“She likes you,” Lorna said in an admonishing and disappointed tone.

Beatrice held up both hands. “All I’m saying is that I got the fun, sexy costume that looks socially responsible from the outside, and you have to be, uh…”

“Mary Sanderson?”

“No.”

“Kiki?”

“No.”

“Perhaps Sabrina?” 

Beatrice sniggered nastily for a moment or two before shrugging her shoulders. “I give up. I guess you’re doomed to hide all your jaw-dropping hotness under a crummy costume, this year.”

Lorna smiled sweetly at her and opened the door.

Beatrice could probably wait to find out about her thigh-highs and the granny boots until they were alone. It might make an amusing surprise.

***

Waking up in the morning was a pleasure unlike any Enoch had known in many years.

He awoke smiling, because down the hall he could hear the pounding of water in the guest room shower and, over it, an exuberant “ _Andiam, andiam, mio bene!_ ”

Enoch rolled onto his back and smiled, dreamily watching the ceiling as Beast exulted in that irresistible seduction, all the way to the last “ _amor._ ”

Then there were only a few moments of silence, before he began singing Erlkönig.

Enoch groaned quietly to himself and rubbed a hand over his face as he listened. Oh, that’s just right. Nightmarish shade haunting the woods, tempting and terrifying mortals, seducing them with delicious whispers until he finally reached out and took what he wanted…

What a lovely thing to listen to. Enoch closed his eyes and breathed and let himself imagine.

He listened until Beast finished that song before getting up and availing himself of his own bathroom, wanting to be decent to greet his houseguest. His was not a short shower, but when he reemerged Beast had only just started in on Dim All The Lights.

“Summer time,” Enoch murmured to himself, grinning like a fool in love, and went to go make the coffee.

As he sipped his first cup and nibbled on one of Mrs. Stringer’s scones, Beast’s voice ringing out from the second floor, Enoch checked his phone. What he saw there delighted him.

They loved Beast. Oh, how they loved him: of the twenty text messages awaiting him, sixteen were thrilled gushing on the subject of the heavenly Mr. Bethlehem. Miss Elizabelle wanted his phone number, as did Miss Green and Miss Stringer, who was a mere stripling girl. Miss Clara wrote to say that her brother was looking to make a full recovery from his absolute swoon in the face of Beast’s charms. Mr. Aspen wrote to say that he remembered the title he’d wanted to share with Beast, and had indeed cracked the covers of _The Turn of the Screw_ upon Beast’s recommendation and simply could not put it down.

Enoch could’ve danced. His two dearest passions, so happily coexisting. And Beast had been radiant the night before, more appealing and more effusively personable than Enoch had ever dreamed. That absurd worry about being a good guest! How ridiculous. Obviously Beast had only been attempting to tease or perhaps deceive Enoch into lowering his expectations to enhance the surprise.

The water stopped running sometime later, and Enoch was not strong enough to resist a little grin at Beast as he appeared. His guest gave no hint that he realized he’d been overheard, but seemed almost unusually chipper nevertheless.

“You observed that I was loved last night, as I recall.  You may be interested to know that you are absolutely adored,” he said, waving his phone a bit while he poured Beast a mug of coffee.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have no fewer than sixteen messages singing joy over having made your acquaintance,” Enoch said. “And a third of the town’s eligible maidens want your phone number.”

“Those poor dear children,” Beast hummed. “They know nothing about me.”

“They know that you can dance and converse intelligently on art,” Enoch said. “And Miss Elizabelle is hardly a child.”

“Oh!” Beast crooned. “Well, you certainly never mentioned that the scrumptious Miss Elizabelle was on offer...”

“Ah, so that’s what does it for you, is it?”

“Mm, and then some,” Beast teased. “And you have only yourself to blame, if the other ladies have found they have a taste for me. I’m given to understand that at least five matrons will stop at nothing to see you happily married.”

“This is very true,” Enoch said. After all, Beast’s concerns about the neighborhood reaction to them staying together had not been perfectly without merit. Sometimes the closet was quite comfortable, really. “Although personally I, too, enjoy a more seasoned figure.”

“So Miss Elizabelle has you all wrapped up, eh?”

“Mm, more seasoned still. I believe you met Rebecca Petersen yesterday? Slung between her granddaughter and great-granddaughter?”

Beast stirred his coffee and emitted a little chuckling hum. “Yes, I think I recall. Was she quite a looker in her younger days?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea,” Enoch said breezily, “she’s been dead these fifty years. But she’s got those hips that don’t quit…”

Beast let out another one of those startled, sparkling laughs, the predecessor of which Enoch had been more than thrilled to hear so loud and clear last night.

“I never could resist a little well-turned rot on a distinguished gentleman, myself,” Beast purred.

“And the hands…” Enoch crooned.

Beast pointed at him with the whole of his left hand, eyes widening. “There it is! My explanation--no wonder you were so unfazed by the terms of your surrender. You kiss the hands of a dozen corpses every year. It must’ve been almost refreshing to feel some life beat in the wrist you touched.”

“An absolute pleasure,” Enoch avowed.

They would leave for Woodlawn around noon, but as it stood they spent the morning together, Enoch explaining to Beast precisely what emojis were and why Lorna was sending him disembodied punctuation marks. The man’s idea of a proper sentence included more clauses than Snapchat had space for, and although Enoch couldn’t see it, he could feel the wrinkle of Beast’s nose when he found himself obliged to type “u” instead of “you.” He had a feeling he would not, in all likelihood, be receiving Snapchats from Beast for that reason alone, and after more reflection decided not to introduce him to Twitter just yet.

Beast tended to sneer over novels with fewer than 140 characters, after all. It wouldn’t do to give the man a shock.


	10. Bedroom

“Auntie?”

Ms. Whispers looked up from her book and spied her niece standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Lorna was in her nightdress and absent-mindedly fidgeted with her fingers as she hovered at the jamb.

“Yes, my dear?” Ms. Whispers asked.

“I’m not interrupting?” Lorna said softly.

Ms. Whispers put her book aside. “Not at all, Lorna. Come in, come in.”

Lorna wandered over to Ms. Whispers’ bed and sat down on the edge. “I wanted to talk to you...oh, I’m not sure, really, even where I want to begin. I’m afraid you’ll think this is silly, or worse…”

“What’s the matter, child?”

Lorna gnawed on the inside her of lower lip and finally looked at her aunt dead-on.

“I want to go to college,” she said. She dropped her eyes away, courage spent. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I know I never really went to school but I do have my home-schooling certificate and I think I could enroll somewhere and maybe get an associate’s degree in something or other--”

Ah. So this was Beatrice’s influence. Ms. Whispers almost smiled.

“Why do you want to go, Lorna?” Ms. Whispers asked.

Lorna pinched her fingertips nervously.

“I don’t have any sort of career, auntie,” she said. “No prospects. And I can’t expect you to take care of me forever…”

“You will have the house when I’m gone,” Ms. Whispers said gently. “And my investments.”

“Thank you,” Lorna replied, looking up. “Truly! Thank you, auntie. But I can’t just live off of that. I want to have something to do. Perhaps go to a nursing school, or take a course in creative writing…”

“And where would you enroll?”

“The community college,” Lorna said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and flushed. “Beatrice says it’s a very good school and that there’s lots of things to study. She’s a scholar, auntie, so she should know what a good school is. She gave me a brochure to see. There are all sort of classes on accounting and history and things.”

“That all sounds very good,” Ms. Whispers acknowledged. “But you know why I don’t like the idea.”

“Oh, no, auntie, please--”

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you won’t try to hunt?” Ms. Whispers said firmly. “Even if you wanted to, you can’t help yourself.”

Lorna gave her a heartbroken look. “I don’t want to do it, auntie,” she said. “Please, I really don’t. I know you think I’m just doing it for fun, but it doesn’t make me happy…”

“What about all that cavorting with the leper down the street?”

“Herod doesn’t like it either!” Lorna said. “It isn’t--it’s just eating, auntie! We don’t like to do it, but we have to! And if we can’t make it into something that’s at least a little bit beautiful, then we’re just animals! Just horrid animals!”

“It’s not beautiful,” Ms. Whispers said sternly. “It’s an ugly thing to do, Lorna.”

“Then a thinking thing!” Lorna cried. “At least we’re thinking about it and we’re doing something with it! Not just consuming and abandoning! You have no idea how humiliating it is, how bad and dirty you feel! I’m so ashamed, all the time, so scared and disgusted with myself! At least Herod understands that! Neither of us would choose this, auntie, you must know we wouldn’t!”

Ms. Whispers sighed. “Lorna--”

“It taints everything I do or want to do,” Lorna said. She gave her fingers a dozen vicious, tearing pinches, glaring at them. “Even wanting to go to school! I can’t even do that, because of how it makes all my intentions and desires seem wicked!”

Ms. Whispers reached out and took her niece’s hand between her own palms. “Lorna. Please. Be calm.”

Lorna took a slow, shaky breath.

“I’m angry,” she said, darting a look up at her aunt and back down. “I’m angry at you and I’m angry at myself. I don’t want to keep doing this same thing forever, auntie. I want to try and change.”

Ms. Whispers nodded. “You have a good point, my dear,” Ms. Whispers said. “And I have found that forbidding you to do something will only make you want to find a way to do it without my permission. It’s more dangerous that way.”

Lorna looked her full in the face, eyes wide with hope.

“If you can go an entire month without doing anything bad,” Ms. Whispers said, “we’ll start an application for you. One class per semester, all right? We’ll start there.”

“One month?” Lorna asked worriedly. “Auntie, that’s...Laura’s going to…”

“We’ve never really tried this before,” Ms. Whispers said. “I’m sure there will be some very bad nights. But you have to try and be good, Lorna. You can eat what we still have in the refrigerator and I won’t stop you from going to the leper’s house. You can eat what you like there. But you mustn’t kill anything.”

Lorna gnawed her lower lip. “What about squirrels? I used to be fine with squirrels when I was a little girl--”

“Not even squirrels. You can’t kill anything more than a bug,” Ms. Whispers said. “You’ve got to get Laura under control, if you’re going to mix with other people. It’s the only way you’ll ever be able to live outside this house.”

Lorna heaved a sigh and nodded her head.

“Yes, auntie,” she said. “One month? And I get to take a class?”

“That’s right.”

A smile broke across Lorna’s lips. “All right. I’ll try.”

“I know you will, dear,” Ms. Whispers said. She gave her niece a tender smile. “Now. Shoo. About your business, dear, for it’s off to bed go I.”

Lorna leaned over and kissed her aunt’s cheek before springing to her feet.

“Good night, auntie,” the girl said, slipping through the door and closing it behind her.

Ms. Whispers smiled sadly. This was unlikely to end well.

***

The doorbell rang just before supper on a Tuesday.

How extremely curious. Herod certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. He hastily tugged his gloves back on and shucked his apron before answering the door.

Outside, Isolde Nymbostratus was wearing the red fox.

Herod stared at her, squinting one eye partially closed to get a better look at the impossible vision on his doorstep. The woman was tiny, having shrunk from the 5'5" of her youth down to barely five feet. Her hair was white and a little thinner than it had been, swept up in a French twist behind her head.  Diamonds dangled from her ears and encrusted her fingers.

Her small face was wrinkled and carefully made up, dark eyes bright and hard beneath her long, artificial lashes.

"Isolde," Herod said. At his side, Turtle sat with a thud, tail wagging.

"Herod," she replied. He felt himself wince and from the look in her eye she'd seen him do it even behind his mask.

She relented. "...Beastie."

"How...I never--I thought you must've--"

"No, dearest, of course not. I'm much too mean to die." She looked about her on the porch. "Well, are you going to join me on the veranda or will you invite me in?"

He stood aside and allowed her to breeze in. Too staggered for anything like embarrassment, he let her wander at will through the first floor, following her like a shadow.

"You might've told me I was interrupting supper," she said, sniffing the air. “It does smell delectable.”

"Will you stay?" he asked. "I've made a lamb."

"Mm, very tempting. Yes, thank you, darling, I will," she said. She sat herself down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other, holding her hands out to Turtle. The dog trotted over and submitted himself to her petting. "A Manhattan would be just the thing, Beastie, and don't waste the good stuff on me. The first cocktail is always such a wash, don't you think?"

Dazed, Herod mixed the dose from what little liquor he kept in the house, made it very neat, and passed it into her hand.

He sat in his chair. "It's been fifteen years, Isolde."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, darling," she replied. "As I recall, we had something of a screaming match before you threw my checkbook into the fireplace and banished me forever from your home."

Shame baked like a brand against his face.

"Yes," he muttered. "Perhaps that explains some of my astonishment to find you defying my edict."

"Are you not pleased to see me, Beastie darling?" the old woman asked, fluttering those long eyelashes. She reached out to stroke Turtle’s head.

The mutt hadn’t made so much as a peep when she arrived, and now nuzzled happily into her hand. So much for his guard dog.

"I am transported," Herod said, "truly, because I did regret the incident. But I’m no less surprised to see you. For one thing, I was certain that after all this time, you must surely be gracing the legions of the damned with your inimitable wit."

"Oh, no, darling, nothing so droll," Isolde laughed happily. "No, I suffer along this mortal coil just so restlessly as anybody, I assure you. I only just celebrated my 70th birthday."

Isolde had been celebrating her 70th birthday ever since Herod was twenty.

“Excuse my belated congratulations. I’m so sorry to have missed the fête.”

“One does get so very busy,” Isolde said understandingly. “You don’t happen to have a canapé or two haunting the house, do you? I’m famished, darling, starved, and I might start nibbling on the coasters if you don’t keep an eye on me.”

“Dinner’s just ready. Let me set you a place in the dining room.”

Herod drew the china and silverware out of the hutch, quickly establishing room for Isolde and lighting the dinner tapers. He put a record on the player, plated their meals, and drew the chair back for his guest, pushing her in when she was settled.

“I see you’re still masked, dearest,” Isolde said, taking a sip from her cocktail and watching him sit down.

“Am I?” Herod asked sarcastically, reaching up to pat his veil. “How astonishing.”

“You hardly need to go about in such a state,” Isolde said. “It really isn’t that bad.”

“You haven’t seen it in fifteen years, Isolde. You don’t know what it is.”

“It can’t be worse than your Uncle Ivan,” Isolde insisted. “Children used to run away from him when they saw him in the street, with that horrid phossy jaw of his, and he never wore a mask in his life.”

“Uncle Ivan was a wealthy windbag with ugly nouveau riche ideas,” Herod retorted. “He had neither pride nor dignity nor any sense of discretion nor taste. He actually _liked_ the way it glowed in the dark.”

“So did your Aunt Heptzebah, if I remember rightful,” Isolde mused. “She used to say she could read in bed by the light of it.”

“I have no desire to shock and astonish, or at least not for that shock and astonishment to come at the expense of my exterior. I believe that some things should be hidden away,” Herod said. “For my own comfort as well as others. I have no desire to see myself every time I pass a reflective surface. I have some dignity still.”

“I must say you’ve got it down beautifully and you're certainly working it for all it's worth, but the resentful, humiliated royalty bit really can only get one so far, my sweet.” Isolde had a bite of roast and hummed happily at the taste.

“I have no interest in going far. I have neither the funds nor the inclination do to so.”

"On that point, you should know you're still in my will," Isolde said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

Herod curled his lip a little. "Leave it to your parakeets, Isolde, I don't want it."

"My little rats with wings will be very adequately cared for, thank you very much. But Beastie, I trust you won't be enough of a pig-headed brat to turn down your inheritance if it happens that I should die before you," Isolde went on.

"Why me?"

"Your mother would've wanted you to have it," Isolde crooned.

Herod scowled. The ace in the hole. "I am not in the habit of enduring charity--"

"Charity! Ye gods, Beast, it is not charity to have one’s rightful inheritance. And it’s really nothing much. Just what she and my late husband would’ve wanted you to have, anyway.”

“They are long dead. Their wishes need not influence my own.”

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy. The money itself is all neatly tucked away in a fund somewhere, darling, where it’s out of sight and can't offend your delicate sensibilities. And then of course you will have some of my own jewelry. I know you covet my pearls."

"Every day I burn to possess them, yes."

"They'll look so lovely on you, darling," Isolde smiled. "You always did know quality, and I must say you really do have the perfect complexion for gems."

Herod shook his head, astonished at her gall. He wondered if she would laugh if she knew he wore his mother's rings still.

"But of course I'm not here to talk about my death," Isolde went on. "I came here because your name crossed my arts and culture digest, which is something it very much has not done lo these many, many years."

"I would've thought you’d have instructed your assistant to very carefully curate that digest. Shouldn't I have been weeded out?"

"Oh, darling, we could hardly make it stick, when you just skittered back into this nasty little shell of yours. You weren't doing anything, so it wasn't as if we had to turn a blind eye to it..."

"I suppose that's true."

"And in any event I wouldn't have really done it, anyway. You're so high strung that you've always driven me batty, darling, but even though I admire it, I never quite had your gift for hating. I loved you and I loved your art. I would've been more than happy to see news of it."

"How kind you are," he drawled. “Could I ever ask for a more loving great aunt?”

"Don't you dare call me something so vile," she scolded. "You promised you never would.”

Herod paused, a little ashamed of himself. It was true. Isolde had taken him aside on her sixty-fifth birthday and insisted that he only ever call her by her given name, and never by the constant reminder of the age gap between them. Because he’d loved his glamorous great aunt with all his heart, twelve-year-old Herod had fervently promised.

“I apologize, Isolde, that was out of line,” he said. “We are only cousins, after all.”

She nodded to herself. “But your work, darling. Your little stories. You might as well be murmuring filthy little nothings into the ears of the listening public--what on earth are you doing?"

"I am hardly--"

"You sound positively twitterpated, you silly fool," she insisted, "so what on earth is going on?"

“It’s really nothing. Enoch Barnes reconnected with me and we’ve--”

“Enoch Barnes,” Isolde murmured. She pointed a thoughtful look at the ceiling. “Where _have_ I heard that name before…?”

“Seven feet tall, politically minded, devastatingly handsome?” Herod volunteered.

“Oh, yes! Enoch _Barnes_! Bless me, I can’t believe I even forgot a body like that.” Herod was equally amazed. He couldn’t imagine forgetting. “How is he?”

“Extremely well. The mayor of Pottsfield, as it happens.”

“How lovely. And so he is the reason you're purring stories like a horny old undertaker. I assume you’re wining and dining him?”

"Not precisely. It’s a long story, but he got me to read aloud a few horror stories and recorded them. It’s a little bet between us and--well, that’s not important. I suppose I had some notion that the project was taking off, but this is the first I’m hearing it confirmed.”

“Darling, you’re the toast of horror circles right now. In the little article I read, the reporters were appalled that they couldn’t seem to find you for comment. They want interviews, Beastie.”

“Oh. How awful.”

Isolde laughed at him. “Ride the wave, darling, you know it’s the only thing any of us can do. I have some writers that would just die if you read for them.”

“I see you already have designs on me.”

“Haven’t I always?” Isolde ate another bite of her dinner. “I listened to your recordings, you know. They’re good, Beast. They’re very good indeed. Some of your best work.”

“I was always a better singer than a reader.”

“That’s true. And so you shall sing again. But for now...this is not at all bad. You should be very proud.”

“Thank you, Isolde. Your opinion has always mattered very much to me," he said, much too earnestly for his own tastes.

Isolde hummed quietly. “...and it was good to hear your voice again, to be perfectly saccharine.”

“Disgusting,” Herod crooned.  They continued their dinner, talking mostly about Isolde's recent adventures and catching up.

When Isolde announced that it was time to go, Herod saw her to the door.

“Are you sure I can’t send you home with anything?” Herod asked.

“No, darling, but thank you. That meal was scrumptious but I can’t have my leftovers frightening the help.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Isolde kissed one of his silver cheeks and patted the other. “Remember, darling, my late husband and I spent almost four months with the Anziques in ‘32. I know long pork when I taste it.”

Herod stared at her.

“Bye-bye, Beastie,” she said, and merrily wandered down the steps. “Do call me the next time you have a little soirée!”

Herod watched her go. Well, well. What an acquaintance to rekindle.

Now,  _that_ would be an addition to the guest list.

***

“And you truly think there is something very awful going on over there?” Ms. Whispers asked.

They were taking a stroll through the park on a chilly November evening. He’d found work under a contractor, which certainly paid more than the leper ever had, but his inability to keep a constant, steady eye on the house on Edel Avenue was picking at his nerves.

She was his solace. She was his comfort.

“I’m certain of it,” he grumbled. “He does something, I’m not sure what, with the children. They never leave his house again.”

“How horrible,” Ms. Whispers breathed. She stopped short. “Wait.  Oh, I can’t bear the thought--why, Lorna goes over there so often--”

“He hasn’t touched her,” he said, eager to reassure her. “I’m not sure why. But he hasn’t.”

Ms. Whispers’ face was an agony of concern. “Thank God. Oh, thank God, then, that she’s moving on…”

“Pardon?”

“Just the other night she told me she wanted to take some classes at the community college,” Ms. Whispers said. “It would be so good for her, something to occupy her during the day…”

“I think that sounds like a fine idea,” he said warmly. “It’s right and proper for a girl her age to get a good education.”

“I agree,” Ms. Whispers said. “But you don’t suppose…”

He reached out and touched her elbow, worried. “Don’t suppose what?”

“She won’t stop visiting him, I know,” Ms. Whispers said. “I can’t stop her. You don’t think that if she visited him less, he would...try to keep her?”

His blood went cold at the very thought. Had that really been the matter? The monster did have a taste for slow torture. What if all this time he’d been playing with Lorna like a cat with a mouse?

“It won’t come to that,” he promised.

“What do you mean?” Ms. Whispers said. “Do you think my Lorna is safe?”

“She will be,” he swore. He took her hand in his, blushing a little at the presumption. “I promise she’ll be safe. I’ll handle this.”

“I don’t know what you mean, my dear. What are you talking about?”

“You mustn’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep her safe.”

“And who will keep you safe?” Ms. Whispers asked, squeezing his hand.

His heart took wing and he smiled.

“We’re all going to be fine,” he said. “You’ll see.”

***

At six o'clock sharp on Friday night, Enoch was a little surprised to find himself superfluous in the libation department.

Beast met him at the door with Turtle, and the dog was thoroughly petted as he danced around Enoch’s legs. Beast locked the front door behind them and led him into the kitchen, passing a glass of wine into his hands immediately and chiming his own goblet against it.

They drank their wine and passed a few moments’ conversation with regards to Pottsfield. Beast, in direct contradiction to his usual habit of scrupulous hostliness, allowed their glasses to run empty, and after several minutes moved around the kitchen island and beckoned Enoch with a crooked finger.

“This will amuse you,” Beast said, opening the door to the basement. “Come along with me. I think you’re going to find this little surprise particularly tasty.”

Enoch followed happily. “What was that wine, Beast? It was very good. Potent.”

“Isn’t it? Thank you very much. Dead Arm Shiraz, a peculiar favorite of mine, and appropriate for the evening.”

“Then we’re celebrating,” Enoch said, surprised. That was not an inexpensive wine, so either Beast’s finances truly had been freed up by the groundskeeper’s dismissal or they were splurging.

“We are, at that,” Beast said. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year, Mayor Barnes. You have made no secret about your love of Halloween. I thought perhaps we would do something fun, now that we are out from the watchful eye of your excellent townspeople.”

“And was my township’s Halloween not fun?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose I just meant a different sort of fun.”

They reached the bottom of the steps and Enoch swayed a little, bracing himself against the wall. Odd. He touched his forehead with his fingertips and shrugged off the faint stiffness in his shoulders.

“All right, Enoch?” Beast asked, placing a hand on his arm.

“Yes, yes, perfectly,” Enoch replied. “Perhaps I’m a little tired this evening. It’s been a long week.”

“Do not let me push you or busy you,” Beast said gently. “I would hate for you to fall ill.”

Enoch smiled and put his shoulders back. “Oh, have no fear of that, Beast. I’m healthy as a horse.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” Beast murmured. “Now, I want this to be an absolute surprise. May I blindfold you?”

Enoch lifted his eyebrows and felt his heart pound. “Of course you may. You’ve put quite a little thought into this, haven’t you?”

“I assure you, it has consumed my mind this last week,” Beast replied.

“Well, then, do as you will,” Enoch said.

“I intend to.” Beast contemplated him for a moment. “Perhaps you would be so good as to lend me that charming necktie for the purpose?”

Enoch’s hands rose to unknot his neckwear. “Is it charming?”

“Such an improvement on the bolo ties,” Beast drawled.

Enoch hummed a laugh and hissed the tie out of his collar. He undid the top buttons of his shirt as he went; the David Lynch look had never really worked for him. Beast reached out and took the tie and Enoch presented his neck for the yoke.

Beast deftly knotted the tie around his head and patted his shoulder when he was done. Enoch felt his host catch up one of his hands and guide his steps further into the basement.

“It is a neverending thing of wonder to me,” Beast said, “that you are so very willing to trust me in matters that pertain to your personal safety.”

Enoch swallowed, excited, and then swallowed again, finding the action rather difficult. “Well, you’ve hardly ever given me a reason to fear you.”

“Have I not?” Beast mused. They came to a stop and Enoch listened hard, trying to tell where they were. They didn’t seem to have gone far, just a dozen steps or so. “You do not consider my physically attacking you or encouraging your complicity in my crimes to be fearsome?”

“I won’t insult you by saying such a thing,” Enoch said slowly. He shook a leg out, annoyed by the strange feeling of numbness in it. Pins and needles. “Let me say, instead, that although you occasionally scare me, I’m never scared of you.”

“Hm. Well, maybe the paralytic agent will change that,” Beast hummed.

Enoch paused. “What.”

“You are aware that you’ve been dining with a serial murderer, aren’t you?” Beast asked. Enoch felt himself sway dangerously. Beast grabbed his shoulders, for what little help that would be if he fell.

“Beast--”

“Ah, ah. None of that, now.” A loop of something coarse and strong slipped around Enoch’s right wrist and then his left, and he felt his arms guided up to latch and hang. He tried to pull but found his limbs did not respond to his instructions. His legs went limp beneath him and he grunted in pain as his shoulders and wrists took the bulk of his weight.

“Pavulon,” Beast murmured in his ear. Dimly and at a distance, he could feel Beast’s hand brush down his chest. “In case you were curious. It is meant to be a sterile injection, but as you can imagine it’s a little tricky to get clean access to someone that way. We’re performing an experiment today, actually, by having you ingest it.”

Enoch grunted, tongue leaden and lips slack. Within him his heart pounded viciously hard, lungs billowing.

“No, no, no,” Beast crooned. “Hush, my friend. If you panic you’ll surely hurt yourself, and if you hurt yourself...well, however will you leave this house alive?”

He managed a whimper.

“Rest easy. I know you can hear me, and I know you can think. Breathe with me.”

He heard the steady inhalation of Beast’s breath beside his ear and Enoch struggled to match it, wanting desperately to twitch his fingers or work his arms. He imagined his brain pumping maddened adrenaline into his system, but he could not more respond to it than feel it.

“There you are. Much better. It would last three hours for a patient of about my size or bigger,” Beast said. “With you, and of course with the slight changes we’ve made to the method of administration...who knows?” Disoriented, Enoch heard the sound of Beast’s gloved hand tapping his face more than he felt it.

“Don’t worry,” Beast breathed. “I have no interest in tearing your shoulders. Hardly a way to handle lovely, succulent meat. I just needed to get you still. I’m going to make a few small adjustments to make you comfortable.”

Enoch hung there, weightless for his lack of feeling, mind awake and senses functioning. He could smell and hear Beast near him, although he couldn’t feel any of the things Beast did. Every now he would hear the rustle of his own clothes, the clinking of chains, or Beast’s soft humming.

“It must be very difficult for you to be so silent for so long,” Beast said, after who knew how many minutes had passed. Enoch heard the sound of a knife being dragged along a sharpening rod. “You, who so tends to whitter on when you get a full head of steam. Not that I do not admire your considerable eloquence, Mayor Barnes. Would it shock you to know I really could not give less of a damn about literally anything in Pottsfield, unless you’re the one telling me about it? Somehow your storytelling is just the thing to make it interesting. I don’t pretend to know how or why that works. Perhaps it is something in your voice. In any event, you have a beautiful gift.”

The sharpening noise stopped. Enoch listened desperately for footsteps or any hint of breathing, but found only the sound of a inconstant wet plop. His mouth was open. Perhaps it was his drool.

Shame and visceral arousal roiled in his mind. Ah, fear, of course there was fear in it, because Beast was unpredictable and terrifying like this, the lovely, conversational monster instead of the terror-driven animal that had attacked him a few weeks ago. If he was to die by Beast’s hand, he would not be mauled by an animal. The regal creature taking him to that strange shore would be his artist, his refined and elegant Death, and his body would become that strange beauty’s meal. That was a kind of honor, he supposed.

But Enoch did not think he would die tonight. Oh, he was afraid, yes, frightened down to his core. Beast had him at his mercy, and who knew what he would do, but it was the terror of perfect helplessness and not the fear of threat that electrified Enoch’s brain. Beast had been too careful about restraining himself, too explicit in his reckoning of his inability to cleanly execute Enoch and escape detection. He didn’t know what was going to happen this evening, but he doubted that he’d already seen his last sunrise.

The silence wrapped around him. In the still dark, the cool dank smell of the basement came in with every breath, and Enoch tried to count his breaths to keep track of the time. He counted a thousand before he lost track, hanging alone and hearing nothing but his own breath and the humiliating drip of his own saliva. What a sight he must make. Perhaps the paralytic agent was a mercy. There would be no mistaking his intense enjoyment of the situation, without it.

At last, he slowly became aware of the very soft sounds of music playing. It sounded so far away that he thought perhaps Beast had truly left him in the basement and was up in his music room, but after a few more breaths Enoch heard the catch and hiss of a struck match and wished he could smile. Beast was here.

He gradually began to feel a pressure on his rear and the backs of his legs and chased the sensation, finding that, with a little work, he could press one thigh and then the other to a hard, flat surface beneath him. His shoulders felt loose and easy, and he realized his hands must be lowered.

“There you are,” Beast hummed quietly from nearby. “Take your time. It’s been about an hour. You mustn’t worry about your hands at all. They’re perfectly well. I had them down within ten minutes. It would’ve been a sin to injure them.”

Enoch counted his breaths again, rising this time up to four hundred. By that time, he could feel his fingertips and close his mouth, pressing his lips together. They were dry. He tried to raise his arms but found that they were bound at his sides, elbows at a ninety degree angle to his upper arms. He was sitting in a chair.

Enoch felt a hand slowly press to his head.

“I retrieved dessert from your pocket,” Beast said from the darkness. Enoch heard the rattle of a pill bottle and smiled. “You’re very generous.”

His throat was dry, but he swallowed painfully and rasped, “It’s my pleasure.”

Beast clicked his tongue.

“Have you any idea how profoundly irritating it is, that you are so unflappable?” Beast asked. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might be trying to scare you? Even if only in the spirit of Halloween?”

His fingers slid from the top of Enoch’s head down to his throat, and ran along--oh, ye gods--a coil of rope that looped around his neck.

Enoch swallowed again, in a little agony, and a deep shudder wracked his bones.

A plastic straw nudged at his mouth and he accepted it, sucking and finding to his relief that water flooded his mouth. He drank all that he could suck down, and breathed more easily afterwards.

“Thank you,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and sighed. That was better.

“Now then,” Beast murmured, brushing a hand across his head again. “Up, up, up. Good posture, please.”

“Hm?” Enoch choked on his breath as the rope pulled tight and hard against his throat. The stab of adrenaline in his veins almost made him grunt as he lurched back and up, dragged to keep his spine straight.

“Thank you,” Beast said pleasantly. “You’re not allergic to any medications, I wonder? I did administer an anticholinesterasic, so tell me if you feel even slightly nauseated.”

“Will do,” Enoch replied, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against the noose.

“Excellent, thank you. Shall we begin?”

The necktie fell off of Enoch’s eyes and he looked at the spread in front of him. Beast had outdone himself.

They were still in the basement, but the utilitarian marble block of the butchering table had been completely transformed into a banquet straight from Hell. The centerpiece was a human ribcage filled with candles. Plates laden with ghastly delicacies stood near at hand, among them a few delicately arranged piles of human fingers, a clear gelatin out of which stared human eyeballs, and a heart sitting on a beautiful porcelain plate. Here and there were little things like skulls or crossed femurs.

Beast stood beside his feast, golden mask reflecting in the shuddering candlelight. He turned his head from the contemplation of his table to face Enoch.

“I have been given to understand that raw diets are all the rage these days,” Beast murmured. He reached out and lifted up the bottle of wine, pouring out two cups. “So we’ll take a leaf out of that book, shall we?”

“You’ve got me salivating,” Enoch breathed, obediently sipping from his glass as Beast held it to his lips.

“First,” Beast purred, drawing a soup dish very near. It was full of a bright red fluid, textured with chopped meat and peanuts. “A delicacy of my own making, quite literally. Tiết canh.”

Beast dipped a spoon into the dish and guided it carefully to Enoch’s mouth. “Traditionally this is made from a duck, and after the creature is butchered the blood is mixed with fish sauce to prevent coagulation. I trust you are not sensitive to fish sauce?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Enoch said, light-headed with desire.

“Good. Now...I am going to assume that you are aware of how leprosy is spread: generally through the nose and broken skin. We aren’t precisely rolling the dice with your substantial, stallion-like health. All the same,” Beast said with a graceful shrug, “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

“Wait,” Enoch said. “This is your blood?”

“Nearly two cups of it,” Beast confirmed, and pressed the spoon to his lips.

Enoch slurped it in with a soft moan, sucking the soup off and licking the bowl clean, deliriously grateful for the large cloth napkin draped across his lap as his prick throbbed hard between his legs. Beast's blood in his mouth, oh sweet God...he grinned when Beast drew the spoon from between his lips.

“Delicious,” he purred.

“How kind,” Beast replied.

Dinner had several courses, though they only ate a few bites of each plate. Beast disdained his own hard-made soup, but the next dish he seemed to truly enjoy. It was a “sashimi of geoduck” served with “criadillas,” complete with chopsticks, and Enoch felt his heart hammer inside him, watching Beast gracefully snap up a sliver of raw penis and eat it. When it came his turn, he eagerly opened his mouth and let Beast feed him whatever he wanted.

Then there was the heart, a true delicacy. It was seasoned and warmed just a bit above what its living temperature had been, and Beast poured a dram of warm brandy over the thing and lit it to burn. Blue flame crackled across the chambers of the organ and Enoch found himself shifting his legs a bit, watching almost with less lust than artistic admiration. Beast sliced it paper thin and fed the lean, lean meat to his guest on one of his beautifully wrought silver forks, taking his own slow bite from the same utensil before moving on.

There was marrow to be sucked out of the bones and tender, fried tongue to be hummed over. Beast presented him with bites of a liver and bites of a lung, and Enoch happily wrapped his lips around whatever his dear friend offered.

At last, Beast paused in his duties and circled slowly around him.

“Well, you have a constitution made for Fear Factor, Enoch, there can be no mistaking that.” He paused and turned to his guest. “Does that reference still make sense anymore? Fear Factor?”

Enoch licked the flavor of the liver off of his lips and smiled. “Yes, I believe it still has some value in the upper echelons of popular culture.”

“Mm. Lower, I believe you mean.”

“Those, too.”

“However we want to put it, I must say you have my admiration, along with my vexation,” Beast hummed, sipping from his wine glass and draping an arm lightly across the back of Enoch’s chair. Enoch felt something very like the tips of his fingers brush his neck and realized they were close enough for him to smell that bewitching cologne lingering between Beast’s skin and clothing. “At least half of this was my own attempt to impress the severity of the situation upon you.”

“Even if I wished to, it would be so rude to turn my nose up at this splendid feast,” Enoch said. “When you go all out, you really go all out.”

“Hmm. Stay your attempts to distract me with flattery, if you please. You are dining upon the dead, Enoch.”

“You keep attempting to startle me with that information,” Enoch said. “I wonder if when you’ll realize that it is something that only enhances the experience.”

“You mean to tell me you truly and consciously enjoy eating other human beings,” Beast said, waving a hand at the table before him. “When you can see their parts in front of you. When there’s nothing between you and the reality of the situation.”

“All I can really think is how much I’d like another bite of the tiết canh and perhaps some more of that heart.”

Beast sighed heavily, shifting himself away. “I suppose it’s only fair that I should find you so impressive, my friend. You are truly unlike any other man I can imagine. I suppose there’s nothing left but dessert.”

“I can’t wait.”

Beast waved hand in lieu of smile and walked to the far end of the table. Enoch watched his hips sway beneath his clothes, smiling at the thought that Beast really was enjoying this.

He returned from the far end of the table with a very sharp knife, a belt, and a broom, the last of which he propped against the marble slab. The knife he set carefully on the table before he smoothly slipped to his knees beside Enoch’s chair. Enoch thought very seriously about baseball as he watched as his host carefully pick at his sleeve, meticulously dragging it out from under the chains and slowly pushing it up to rise above his elbow.

Beast passed the belt around his arm.

“So, you have no problem eating,” Beast mused. “That’s good. I make no pretensions of psychological expertise, but I cannot help but feel that recognizing a basic animal need and pursuing it without shame is healthy.”

“I would tend to agree.”

“Now. What about being eaten?” Beast asked. He pulled the belt tight, fitting the pin into a specially-made hole so that it cinched painfully snug. He gently traced over one of Enoch’s veins with a fingertip.

Enoch let out a shuddery exhalation. “I...suppose there’s only one way to find out. How much do you intend to take?”

Beast stroked his arm with feathery little brushes of his gloved fingertips, putting his head to the side. He hummed quietly to himself and ran the length of one of Enoch’s fingers between his thumb and middle finger.

“You have so many of these. Do you really need all of them?” he mused dreamily.

Enoch sucked in a startled breath, even as his stomach dipped. Beast looked at him expectantly for a moment before winking.

“Oh, I’m teasing,” Beast drawled. He chuckled softly. “No, I won’t take anything that shows.”

“...if you’re sure that will satisfy,” Enoch replied.

“I am certain it shall be more than sufficient, but thank you all the same.” Beast picked up the knife and passed the broom to Enoch, wrapped his fingers around it. “Squeeze.”

Enoch obeyed, watching his own veins bulge. Beast gave them another soft touch before he angled the knife and lay a few cuts across Enoch’s arm.

It was not something he’d experimented with, before. He didn’t mind pain or the odd bruise, but until now his appreciation had been reserved for admiring cuts and punctures and gashes, as opposed to feeling them inflicted upon his own person.

Enoch licked his lips, watching his skin part obediently for Beast, red welling up to linger in a little bulge at the crisp edges of his flesh before it spilled down his arm, rolling around and beneath. Beast held a cup ready to catch the flow and made another few little slices in the crook of his elbow, sighing quietly beside him.

Oh, dear.  It probably was not at all healthy for him to be so hard and so neglected for so long.

“Healthy heartbeat,” Beast hummed quietly. “Healthy blood.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m very glad to get to have this, you know. It’s a special treat for me. I don’t usually get to know how healthy people are, but I can see it all over you. You take good care of yourself, Mr. Barnes.”

“Sound mind in a sound body, after all,” Enoch breathed, watching, fascinated, as his spilled for his Beast.

“For a given value of sound mind, if you don’t mind me saying,” Beast snickered. “You are truly rare.”

“I have a theory,” Enoch said, “and I’m happy to hear if I’m off base.”

“I’m happy to tell you so,” Beast drawled.

“I think the reason that you like to push and prod at me so over your admittedly unusual diet is simply because you’re not sure that I’m telling the truth. Never mind whatever scheme I could possibly have, lying to you so long and so staunchly...perhaps you didn’t think that there was anyone who found it beautiful?”

Beast was silent. Enoch let him do it. It was enough to bleed for him and be quietly happy.

“Beautiful is a strong word,” Beast said at last. He made another little cut across Enoch’s arm and opened more of the vein.

“This,” Enoch said, pointing around the room and at last to Beast with his eyes, “is exquisitely beautiful.”

“Pottsfield Halloweens have warped your sensibilities.”

Enoch smiled a little dizzily and let himself look over the banquet, memorizing this sight. The clean ribcage, the playful dishes, some of the meathooks gleaming prettily in the candlelight.

The gorgeous nightmare kneeling beside him, thirsty for his blood.

So, so beautiful.

“I will say,” Beast whispered, “that I have grown so very tired of eating alone.”

Enoch wished he could’ve reached out and touched his friend, but instead he squeezed the broomstick tighter, feeling a strange rush of pride as his blood flowed more quickly into Beast’s cup.

When he deemed the goblet filled to his satisfaction, Beast put down the knife and drew a small wipe from inside his pocket. He slicked it across Enoch’s skin, pressing down and cleaning the cuts before wrapping a bandage around him and releasing the tourniquet. Enoch flexed his fingers and shook out his grip, watching as Beast rose to his feet and held the cup beneath his veil.

“I don’t usually get to enjoy fresh blood,” Beast remarked in a low purr. “It’s...well. Generally it’s so much slop, and it just gets in the way. And of course you can never know where someone’s been.”

“Of course.”

Beast tilted head and hand and glass, and Enoch listened with perked ears and aching prick to the soft sounds of his swallows. Beast hummed to himself and put the cup on the table, not empty by a long shot but no longer quite as brimming.

“Do you give blood, Enoch?” Beast asked, drawing the gelatin closer. Enoch watched it shudder, eyeballs wobbling, and tamped down the urge to giggle.

“Only this once.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t encourage you. I should hate to have to share. That is…” He paused and shook his head, seeming embarrassed. “No, never mind. I certainly oughtn’t take a proprietary stance on your blood--”

“No, no, go on. I’m curious. Will this be a recurring meal?” Enoch asked, delighted.

Above their heads, they heard Turtle give one short, sharp bark.  Beast glanced up and listened for more.  When silence reigned, he shrugged. “Well, not if I have to drug you every time.”

“Why did you drug me now?”

“Halloween, of course,” Beast said, as if amazed that it had to be asked. He picked up his cup again and had another sip. “Apropos of that...the gelatin itself is rendered from one of my…”

“Volunteers?”

“Victims,” Beast said with a toss of his head. “They volunteered nothing. I took it. We might as well be honest when it’s just you and me, don’t you think? The gelatin is human, but the eyes are little candies Lorna brought me. I think they’re charming.” He gave the plate a wiggle. “Never let it be said I don’t have a sense of humor.”

Enoch grinned and relaxed in his noose and chains, and felt himself just fall a little bit more in love.

The door of the basement slammed and they both jumped.

Enoch darted a gazed at his host. Beast didn't see much the more relaxed. He reached out and swiped a knife off the table, pocketing it.

Enoch heard the clatter of footsteps racing down the stairs and turned his head to see the groundskeeper step into the dim light of the basement.

He was carrying a shotgun.

Beast hovered, uncharacteristically uncertain what to do, the cup of blood still held in one hand. Enoch, terrified, strained against his bindings but could only watch as the groundskeeper stared at the tableau of the supper table in obvious horror.

“Monster,” the groundskeeper snarled at Beast. “You monster!”

“I--” Beast began.

“Shut your lying mouth!” the groundskeeper rasped. He leveled the shotgun at Beast. “You’re coming with me, you animal. Back away from the man and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Beast resisted for a moment, but the groundskeeper snapped off the safety and that seemed to decide for him. Beast carefully placed the cup of blood on the marble slab, held up both hands, and backed away from Enoch.

“Now walk towards me,” the groundskeeper demanded.

“Wait--” Enoch said, straining against his bindings.

The groundskeeper darted a look at Enoch.

“Are you injured?” he asked gruffly.

“I’m bleeding.”

The groundskeeper gestured Beast towards one of the corners of the room. Beast went, prowling like a predator and looking for an opening as the groundskeeper stepped closer to consider Enoch’s arm.

The wounds still oozed blood against the white gauze and Enoch was grateful for it. The important thing was that he get free enough to handle the groundskeeper. He could only pray that the man wasn’t clever enough to know on which side Enoch stood.

The groundskeeper snarled when he spotted the contents of Beast’s goblet.

“Disgusting!” he rasped. “Abomination!”

“Oh, spare me,” Beast drawled.

“Are you here against your will?” the groundskeeper asked Enoch.

Score one for a lack of canniness, then.

“Are willing people usually made to sit with nooses around their necks?” Enoch asked, making his voice bright with fear and anger.

“Hmm,” the groundskeeper huffed. “But you came inside. You always came back.”

“But this,” Enoch said, straining against his chains. “I never knew about this!”

The groundskeeper gave him another slow look. “Very well. I’ll turn you loose, in due time.”

Enoch’s heart sank as the groundskeeper turned his attention back on Beast.

“My doors were locked,” Beast observed frostily.

“Not anymore,” the groundskeeper hissed.

“What are you going to do?” Enoch demanded.

"He's going to hang from his own damned Edelwoods," the groundskeeper snarled.

"My trees are ornamentals,” Beast drawled. “They are barely seven feet tall, at their greatest height, and those branches are mere twigs. If you are seeking a dramatic comeuppance, please endeavor to inject a bit of pragmatism into your artistic vision."

Under no circumstances did Enoch see or wish to see the point of view that lead the groundskeeper to loathe and so mistreat Beast, but in a moment like this he could begin to see how his dear friend might have characteristics that could possibly grate on those with delicate sensibilities.

The groundskeeper pointed the shotgun at Beast's chest. "You hold your tongue or I'll tear it from your head!"

He looked about him and spotted the rope around Enoch's neck.

"This will work, instead," he said, and held the gun steady on Beast as he drew the noose over Enoch's head.

"I can certainly vouch for the craftsmanship," Beast remarked.

"This is--" Enoch tried.

"Hands behind your back," the groundskeeper ordered.

Beast obeyed, as docile as a lamb while the groundskeeper bound him with a plastic zip tie extracted from a coverall pocket.

"How extremely unimaginative," Beast sighed. He jerked slightly as the groundskeeper yanked the tie brutally. "Ouch, I assume. But really, you couldn't have even sprung for a pair of shackles? Some Eumenid you've proved to be..."

"Shut up."

"Is this entirely necessary?" Enoch asked, desperation beginning to oppress him. "If you want to watch him suffer, wouldn't it be better if he was taken alive?"

"No!" Beast and the groundskeeper snapped in unison.

"Prison's too good for him," the groundskeeper snarled. He draped the noose around Beast's head. "They'll keep him alive. He'll inspire others."

"I'm flattered, I'm sure, by your glowing estimation of my charms," Beast quipped.

"Do you really want your last words to be sarcastic?" Enoch asked.  

The groundskeeper came over and heavily dragged Enoch's chair around so that he faced the horrific sight of Beast bound for the scaffold. "I want you to be another witness."

"I can't condone this, ah...friend," Enoch said to the groundskeeper. "It's illegal. An affront to justice."

"If anyone asks," the groundskeeper said, "I'll tell them you protested at length." 

Enoch strained against his chains and thrashed. "At least set me free before he dies!"

"No, no," Beast protested. "This way there can be no doubt of your lack of involvement. Think strategically, my dear, for heaven's sake."

"Besides," the groundskeeper added, "you'd save him if you could. Disgusting behavior--"

"Which I do so appreciate," Beast hummed.

"You should've heeded my warnings," the groundskeeper said to Enoch. He walked through the room and got a chair, bringing it over beside Beast. "But I'm giving you a second chance. Maybe this...thing's death will break his spell."

"I will tell people what you did," Enoch swore. "You won't be able to escape this. The whole world will know what you--"

"It is no shame to be revealed to have done the world a service," the groundskeeper said darkly. "And this rope looks strong enough for two, Mr. Mayor."

"Don't do this," Enoch insisted. "This won't fix anything. This is just revenge!"

"Obviously," the groundskeeper scowled.

"Please," Enoch said, staring at Beast. "Don't do this."

But if the groundskeeper had really been listening to Enoch before, he wasn't anymore. He seized the rope from where it had been tied off and held it in his hands, putting the shotgun down on the floor.

“Won’t you help me mount my platform?” Beast inquired, nodding his head to the chair in front of him. “I’m afraid my balance is a little off.”

Instead, the groundskeeper stepped up onto the seat of the chair.

“I want my face to be the last thing you see,” he replied. “You’re going to hang slowly.”

"Oh, lovely. Do I get any last words?" Beast asked, his voice as perfect and easy as it had ever been.

"No," the groundskeeper said, and began to pull. The rope tightened and Beast's breath rushed on the inhale, only to leave in a pained grunt as the rope passed hand over hand in the groundskeeper's grip and Beast's feet began rising off the floor.

"No!" Enoch barked, transfixed by the horror of the scene. "No! No!"

Beast's body dangled and struggled for life as the groundskeeper hauled him higher, holding the weight steady when it was impossible for Beast to find his footing. As the rope twisted through the meathook, Beast was slowly turned to put his back to Enoch. Enoch's stomach turned at the choking noises that escaped his thrashing friend. 

"Stop it!" Enoch roared.  "Stop!"

"I'm going to watch your face as you die," the groundskeeper said to his victim, holding the rope tight and reaching out with one hand.

He ripped the silver mask away and dropped it to the floor. The groundskeeper recoiled, truly appalled.  He spat in Beast's face.

"As ugly outside, as in," he remarked, leaning closer again.

That was a mistake.

Beast's head snapped forward and Enoch heard a loud crunch. The groundskeeper let out a bellow. The rope slipped from his grasp and Beast fell to the floor with a spray of blood bursting from his mouth.

The groundskeeper clawed at his own face. What had been the man's nose was nothing but a red hole, gushing blood down his face and chin. He fell off of his perch and staggered, terrified and in pain.

On the floor, Beast spat something out of his mouth and wriggled desperately, back to Enoch as he nudged himself out of the noose. He twisted in a painful-looking arc and seized the knife from his belt, slitting his wrists free and getting on all fours, coughing. He threw himself in the direction of the shotgun, seized it, and emptied it of bullets as he lay on the floor.

The groundskeeper, coming to realize what had happened, roared with rage and threw himself at Beast. Beast swung the gun like a club and caught the groundskeeper in the side with a crack, sending him staggering. Beast got to his knees and then stood, hunched and panting, before he swung the gun at his former servant's head and knocked him to the ground, motionless.

From there, Beast crossed the room and picked up his fallen veil, draping it over his head before he turned to face Enoch.

"Well," he said in chipper, if broken and croaking, tones, "you were no help at all, were you?"

Despite his infuriated terror and the incredible display of Beast's deadly grace, all Enoch could feel was blind, stupid relief.

Beast twisted the key in the padlock of the chains and helped begin to unwind them. Once Enoch had an arm free he used it to reach out and drag Beast against his chest, making the man sprawl at an awkward angle across his lap.

"This feels undignified," Beast rasped, reaching up to steady himself with his hands on Enoch's shoulders.

"I couldn't care less," Enoch mumbled. gripping him tightly. "What in hell is the matter with you, scaring me like that?" He shifted his grip and cupped the back of Beast's head, holding their foreheads together.

Beast's patting hands faltered.

"I apologize," he said quietly. "I truly frightened you, didn't I?"

"I imagine I'm not really the one who should be in need of comfort," Enoch admitted, moving his hand to touch Beast's neck. "But yes. How are you not equally rattled?"

"Oh, well..." Beast shrugged and let the sentence wander off to die. Instead of speaking, he put a hand on Enoch's shoulder and squeezed, and Enoch decided that that would suffice for a proper response.

The rest of the chains were drawn away and Enoch carefully stood, slowly stretching his muscles and pleased to have some amount of autonomy once again.

"I'd say I'm glad to be in a slightly better position to defend and assist you, should anything go pear-shaped," he said. "But not only has that ship sailed, but you've amply demonstrated that you can look after yourself."

Beast's eyes narrowed to communicate his pleasure. "One does what one can." He looked at the body of his unconscious former groundskeeper. "I do try to have robust home security, but this--"

Beast stopped cold, back snapping straight and tense. He bolted for the stairs.

Enoch followed, concerned. "Beast?"

"Turtle," his host gasped, charging up the steps. "He's upstairs."

Blood running cold, Enoch hurried after Beast and only made it to the middle of the steps before he heard a cry from Beast that sent his heart plummeting. It was a horrible noise of pained despair, made even worse by the trauma to his usually immaculate voice.

He hustled up the remaining stairs and found Beast in the foyer, kneeling beside the dog. The animal panted pained, short breaths, gurgling whimpers laboriously escaping its throat.

A bloody axe lay nearby. Enoch felt his stomach twist.

Beast's head was level with the dog's, nuzzling its face. He rapidly stripped off his gloves, tossing them carelessly away and burying the fingers of one hand in the dog's fur while the other pressed against an oozing wound.

"Shh, shh, shh," Beast breathed. "I'm here. I'm right here."

The dog struggled to whine. Beast tightened his grip, trying to soothe it.

Enoch approached carefully, almost afraid of what he'd see. Oh, he'd watched animals die in agony before, to be certain, but never a pet.

The dog had been struck a blow with the axe across the chest, one of its front legs connected to the shoulder by only few threads. It had also suffered some other collision to the head, and its ribs were dented in. Blood reddened one eye and down its snout, beginning to pool on the floor.

Turtle whimpered.

"There's an animal hospital on 16th Street," Enoch said. "Miss Lulilly occasionally does business with them."

Beast picked up his head, hands roving ceaselessly over his pet's head and neck. "Do you think they could--"

"If we move quickly, yes,"Enoch said. "He's fighting. He wants to live."

Beast sprang to his feet. "Powder room towels for the bleeding. If you carry him, I'll get a tarp," he said, running towards the basement.

Enoch waited until Beast reappeared. It took several nerve-wracking minutes; all he could do was press towels against the wounds and stroke the dog, listening to the harried clattering in the basement.

At last Beast emerged, a tarp wedged under his arm, and dragged a dining room chair to the door, wedging it under the knob. Hurrying towards them, he whipped off his veil and replaced it with his silver mask before Enoch could get a good look at him, sweeping his gloves up off of the floor and opened the front door.

"Come here, pup," Enoch said soothingly, crouching down to determine the best way to move the animal. The dog whimpered as Enoch carefully picked him up, shifting 150 pounds of pained, anxious, oozing mongrel.

Enoch carried Turtle across the brick walk as Beast bolted the door behind them. He stepped to the side as Beast raced past him to the curb and his car.

“Keys in my right pocket,” Enoch reported. Beast unhesitatingly snatched them up and opened the car. He draped the tarp across the backseat and stepped away to let Enoch lever the dog in.

“I’ll ride with him,” Beast said. He folded himself inside and sat in the footwell, hands already on his pet’s neck.

“Of course,” Enoch said, carefully closing the door after them. He got himself in and started the car, listening to Beast murmuring quietly to his pet.

“What did you do with the groundskeeper?” Enoch asked.

“Injected him with the paralytic,” Beast said quietly, in between soothing murmurs and crooned nonsense. “Stripped him naked. Took his phone and keys and tools. Bound him with his zipties. Broke his kneecap.”

“Hold on,” Enoch said, pulling into and out of a gas station to avoid a red light. The ensuring right turn was a little sharp. “Well, that sounds secure enough.”

"I'm going to gut him alive," Beast said softly.

“Beast--”

“And that’s assuming Turtle doesn’t--isn’t--” Beast stopped, pressing his head to the dog’s snout.

Enoch had another solution.

It could absolutely wait.

They roared into the animal hospital parking lot and Enoch hurried out, running into the lobby.

“We need help,” he said to the nurse on duty.

The man took one look at the blood befouling Enoch’s shirt and snapped to attention. “I’ll get a stretcher.”

Beast lurched himself out of the car, more than willing to do whatever he had to, to get the dog cared for. Enoch and the nurse took the tarp and used it to drag the crying animal out and onto the platform.

Disoriented and in agony, Turtle snapped blindly and growled until he felt his master’s hand on his head. He settled into whining and snuffling as Beast ran alongside the stretcher, all the way into the operating room.

Enoch slumped into a slouch on one of the waiting room chairs and gratefully accepted a glass of water and a clipboard full of papers from another nurse. He began filling in such information as he knew, shifting uncomfortably as the blood began to dry on his chest.

Beast reappeared shortly, all in a terrible tangle. Enoch rose to receive him and managed to get him to sit down.

He reached out and took Beast’s hand. Beast squeezed back, viciously tight.

Nothing to do but wait.

***

It must’ve only taken an hour or two, but Herod was completely incapable of comporting himself with anything like calmness. He stood and paced and sat and twitched. He attempted to drink a glass of water, only to discover the agony involved in swallowing anything. Fortunately that provided some level of distraction until his glass was empty and the only thing he wanted to do with it was to throw it against a wall.

That would probably be considered rather rude.

When the animal surgeon finally called him forward, Herod sprang from his seat and left Enoch almost without a backward glance. Almost.

Enoch, who had been entirely too good to him during this nightmare, only smiled at him and laced his fingers across his belly, apparently content to wait until Herod returned.

The doctor led him into the room where Turtle lay still and silent on the table. His tattered, wiry fur was shaved here and there, exposing mottled pinkish skin and ugly stitches.

“He’s going to be just fine,” the doctor said kindly. Herod almost didn’t hear, too terrified that his pet was dead to settle for anything less than getting his hands on the dog and feeling his heartbeat.

“Thank God,” Herod breathed, stroking Turtle’s head. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. Obviously the leg didn’t make it, but his chest should be fine after those stitches. He has some broken ribs as well, and it’s unlikely that he’ll see very well out of his left eye.”

“But he will survive it?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a real fighter, Mr. Bethlehem, and he wasn’t going to let this take him down.”

“Thank you,” Herod breathed. “It was a home invasion, and I was certain...thank you. Thank you so much, doctor.”

He finally picked his head up and looked at Turtle’s savior directly. He frowned a little.

“I beg your pardon. I think I know you,” he said. “You don’t happen to live in Woodlawn, do you?”

The doctor smiled. “I do. I live on Aspen Street.”

“You don’t...happen to have sons, do you?” he asked, seeing something familiar in the doctor’s face.

“Yes! Two boys. Greg and Wirt.”

“Yes, I think I’ve met them,” Herod said. “Lorna is a family friend. Sometimes she runs around with them, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, that’s her name, then,” the doctor said. “Yes, Beatrice mentioned that she had a girlfriend and if it was all right to introduce the boys to her. Well, it’s a small world, Mr. Bethlehem!”

“It is,” Herod croaked. He cleared his throat. “Pardon me. They’re charming children. You should be very proud.”

The doctor grinned. “I am. I love them very much.”

“Well, the next time I see them, I’ll tell them what a wonderful mother they have,” Herod replied. “It’s the least I can do, since you saved my baby.”

“I’d like to keep him overnight, just for observation,” the doctor said. “Make sure he’s all right as far as blood count is concerned.”

“Of course,” Herod said. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Bethlehem. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“No. Thank you, doctor.”

She led him the rest of the way into the waiting room. The nurse affirmed that all the paperwork was in order and that they would call him as soon as he could come by and retrieve Turtle.

Enoch stood up when Herod appeared. His poor friend looked exhausted, concerned, and yet determined to be of good humor. The combination made Herod’s heart ache. Enoch’s bloodied shirt had him closing his eyes for a moment, dizzy with mingled relief and rage.

Herod approached him. “He’s going to be fine,” he reported. “I can fetch him in the morning.”

Enoch’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Let’s go home,” Herod said gently, touching his friend on the arm.

Once they were outside and walking to the car, Herod held his own upper arms with his hands, hugging himself. “This was not how I imagined the night going.”

“I’m sorry,” Enoch said, touching his back. “I’m so sorry.”

They walked on, silent and stinking of blood.

“...I never had any children,” Herod said at last, as they stood by the sedan. “Or a spouse.”

Enoch listened, looking at Herod. Herod stared at the ground, embarrassed by this confession.

“Or anyone else with whom to share my home,” Herod said softly. “He slept on the foot of my bed. Followed me everywhere. Adored me, sought my touch."  His voice snapped and he could not blame his hanging. "No one...was ever so happy to see me…”

Enoch reached out and touched Herod’s shoulder. When Herod didn’t recoil, Enoch drew both arms around him and pulled him close. The tight, fine tremors that had been beating against Herod’s skin for the last few hours resolved themselves into something deep and wracking. Herod stood there, pressed tightly against Enoch’s warm and tender plushness, his emaciated frame all joints and bones, all gouging thorns against his friend’s beautiful, living body.

Herod’s hands clawed desperately up Enoch’s back, one to curl around his shoulder and one to twist into a fistful of his shirt. His head pressed against Enoch’s chest and Herod breathed Enoch's scent through his mask and stood there until he stopped shaking.

Enoch held him by the shoulders and kept him close.

“I’m going to keep him alive,” Herod said at last. His voice was ruined. Anyone would think he had been screaming for hours. “I’m going to feed him nothing but his own flesh for months…”

“Take him to court,” Enoch said.

Herod ripped his head up and stared at him. “What.”

“Just consider it for a moment,” Enoch said, rubbing his back. “It’s an elegant solution, to say the least. All we have to do is a bit of cleaning up before we place the call.”

Herod tilted his head at Enoch, giving him a doubtful look.

"And besides the simple fact that he did attempt to murder you, there are other attractions to the prospect of taking him to court. Granted, I don't think medical damages are paid in the case of animals--" Enoch continued.

Herod choked.

"Oh, God," he croaked, head snapping around to look into the lobby of the animal hospital. "I didn't--I never even--"

"Please," Enoch said, "it's taken care of."

Herod’s tensed shoulders quivered and slumped and he scorched in hot, humiliated relief.

"Thank you," he said softly. This was certainly more important than his idiotic pride. "Thank you so much, Enoch."

"It seems to me that all that really matters in this unique case is how we shift the focus," Enoch said. "You're not alone anymore, my friend, not by a long shot. There are people who would be appalled to hear that their favorite performer had been attacked in his own home. Yes, you’ll have to be cross-examined, but if we’re very careful, a court case could very easily you from remove suspicion for ever."

Oh. That was a rather interesting point. Herod considered that, tapping his fingers slowly against Enoch's arm.

"We can tell this story any way you want to," Enoch said. “It would be my pleasure to help.”

“It’s not enough, that he just spend the rest of his life in prison,” Herod murmured. “He needs to suffer, and to make that happen I don’t really have any objection to making his worst fears come true.”

"Now, now. It's not an issue of making him suffer, my dear…” Enoch gave him a heart-pounding, terrifying smile. “I promise you, we'll make him suffer. It's just a question of whether you want him only to suffer, or if you want to find a way to make his suffering serve you."

Herod blinked and heaved a slow, shuddery breath sigh.  Enoch stroked his back gently.

He was such a very, very lovely man. Something hot and heavy coiled low in Herod’s belly, making his blood beat quickly, and he fought not to tighten his grip on Enoch’s shirt. How had he ever thought he could ignore such an exquisite creature?

"You're a monster, Mr. Barnes," Herod said, at last. His voice soft and breathy, nothing more dignified than a plea. "A demon from the pit."

Enoch gave him that genteel, innocent smile that usually drove Herod absolutely up the wall. But not tonight. Tonight, he only itched to map its luscious shape under his own mouth.

"Only when the cause it good," Enoch replied modestly.

Herod ran a hand down his arm and drew away.

"Let's go home," he said. "We have some housekeeping to do."

"Of course," Enoch said and open the car door for him.

***

They came back.

The leper gave the mayor his clothes and let the bigger man redress him. Unable to move, he tried to snarl and fight back, but he could only watch and wait as large hands stuffed him none-to-gently into his clothing.

The leper busied himself with destroying the evidence of the meal, packing up the food and dumping the centerpiece and ghoulish decorations into a trash bag. A cloth bag went over his own head then, but he imagined that the trash bag would be tossed into the covered well by the sink.

Left in the dark, he gradually became aware of his sense of touch returning to him.

The next thing he clearly heard was a thin, reedy voice, croaking painfully.

“Yes? Detectives? This is Herod Bethlehem. Please, come quickly...I’ve just been attacked.”

***

This was a new one on Detective Tode.

He stood in the basement of the Edel Avenue house, looking at the meat hook noose and the shotgun. Up above, he'd seen the puddle of dog blood and the axe from when they'd first arrived and found the scene. Frugg was still with it all, upstairs with the old man and dealing with his lunatic testimony.

At the moment, in the basement, the recluse was leaning on his mayor friend, tucked close against him with the mayor's hand on his back. Detective Tode had never really imagined Bethlehem to be the demonstrative type, but this evening seemed to have him rattled and he didn't want to be left on his own.

Detective Tode didn't particularly blame him.

"We'd just finished dinner," Bethlehem said. His voice was ruined and Detective Tode frowned at the sound of it. "Mr. Barnes had just stepped out on the back porch for a cigarette and I slipped downstairs to shift the laundry when I heard Turtle whimper and the footsteps at the top of the stairs. I thought it was Mr. Barnes and called out that I was below. By the time I realized what was wrong, he already had the gun on me. He said I was a monster and that I was going to pay for my crimes, some such thing."

"I see," Detective Tode murmured.  He glanced at the mayor.

Mr. Barnes wore a grim expression. "When I came in, I hear the noise of an...well, altercation seems a mild way of putting it, but there it is. I wasn't sure quite what was happening, and I didn't want to alert anyone to my presence before I had to. I slipped down the stairs just in time to see Beast..."

The mayor shuddered. Bethlehem squeezed closer.

"And then?" Detective Tode prompted.

"He bound me and hanged me," Bethlehem croaked. Well, that explained the voice. "He said he wanted to watch me die and he tore off my mask. I did the only thing I could think of, with him so close, and I..." Bethlehem covered his chest with his hand. "I bit his nose."

"Hm," Detective Tode said.

"Off," Bethlehem said with a shudder. "It was horrific, but it got him to release the rope. I fell to the ground and the next thing I knew, Mr. Barnes was using the shotgun as a club."

"I didn't trust myself not to kill him, if I shot him," Mr. Barnes said. "And I'm no fighter when it comes to my bare hands."

"Right," Detective Tode said.

"I hit him in the ribs and the knee and the head.  Once he was unconscious, I cut Mr. Bethlehem loose and got him up. His breathing was fine, but then he mentioned that the dog should've been guarding the front door."

Detective Tode nodded. "And where is the dog?"

"At the 16th Street animal hospital," Bethlehem said. "As soon as we found him, we raced off. Enoch just waited for me to bind my attacker before we left. I'm...I'm sorry, perhaps we should've called you first--"

"You should've," Detective Tode confirmed.

"But I couldn't just let him die while we waited," Bethlehem said weakly. "He never would've made it if we hadn’t rushed him to the hospital."

"I see," Detective Tode said, looking around. The two men fell silent as he paced about, looking at this thing and that.

"You won't mind if I ask to see your neck, will you?" Detective Tode asked Bethlehem.

Mr. Barnes' arm tensed around his host. "Surely that isn't necessary--"

"I have no objection," Bethlehem croaked. He shifted just a bit away from Mr. Barnes and carefully drew away a little of the scarf around his head and neck, teasing down his turtleneck collar. He tilted his head, exposing a bony, texturally mottled, impossibly pale throat. The unhealthy whiteness of his skin made the livid purple-red ligature mark just beneath his lower jaw only the more more stark and ghastly.

Well. Looking at the skin, Detective Tode figured it probably wasn’t MS. Nose cancer was still a possibility.

The mayor was tensed where he stood, staring at Bethlehem’s neck. Perhaps he hadn't seen the injury yet.

"May I take a photo?" Detective Tode asked.

"If you must," Bethlehem said. "Is the light all right?"

"Just fine."

Detective Tode took a quick snapshot of the injury and waited for Bethlehem to redress.

“I want to help with the investigation any way I can,” Bethlehem said. “I’ll never have another moment’s peace if I know he’s still out there, able to come back. I can’t be sure that someone will be here to rescue me, next time.”

“I understand,” Detective Tode said. He glanced up at the noise of feet on the stairs and spotted Detective Frugg coming down. “We’ll hold him in custody and file the report. We’ll have to ask you gentlemen to come down and give a formal statement, of course...”

“Not a problem at all,” Mr. Barnes said. “You’ll be able to look us up in Pottsfield.”

“Actually,” Detective Frugg said, shoving his hands into his pocket, “we’d prefer if at least Mr. Bethlehem can stay in the area until we get that testimony recorded. We can assign a guard, if that would be any help.”

The mayor frowned deeply and opened his mouth, but Bethlehem looked at him and gave him whatever the faceless equivalent of a reassuring smile was.

“That should suffice very well, thank you,” Bethlehem said. “I’ll feel much better knowing there’s someone else here.”

“It’s late,” Detective Frugg said. “We’ve gotten all we can get right now. We’ll let you gentlemen have some peace.”

“Thank you so very much, detectives,” Bethlehem creaked. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Moments later, Detective Tode stood beside his partner on the brick walk and fished a cigarette out of his pocket.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Detective Frugg replied in a snap. “All I know is it’s midnight and we’ve got the old man down at the precinct on a felony charge that looks pretty fuckin’ watertight.”

“Who the hell takes a dog to the vet before they call about being hanged?”

“Weird old fags with necrotizing fasciitis, apparently.”

“Is it necrotizing--”

“I’m gonna lamp you,” Detective Frugg warned. “Blow some of the smoke my way.”

Detective Tode blew out a stream and Frugg inhaled deeply.

“Shelly’s gonna kill me for that,” Detective Tode muttered.

“I don’t like it, either,” Detective Frugg said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Bethlehem isn’t shady as all fuck. I’m just saying he got fuckin’ hanged in his own basement and the old man did it.”

“He was yelling about cannibals when the trooper took him.”

“Because Bethlehem bit his goddamn nose off. He’s lost it,” Detective Frugg said, starting down the walk. Detective Tode followed. “Nutty as a goddamn fruitcake. It’s a travesty, man, a cryin’ shame, but he’s still gotta answer for it.”

“The dog thing bothers me. So does the wait. They had him bound with zip ties for at least an hour.”

“Yup.”

“And the nose biting, what the actual shit. Why didn’t he just kick him?”

“Yup,” Detective Frugg confirmed. “It’s a mess. It’s a shady fuckin’ mess. But Bethlehem still got hanged and there’s still a credible witness, and a physical injury, _and_ whatever evidence the vet can give. The axe is covered in dog blood, man, first thing he did when he came in was swing to kill.”

“And what the hell is the mayor doing here?” Detective Tode mumbled.

“Eh, I don’t know. I guess they’re old friends?”

“They were all over each other.”

“Well, shit. Maybe it’s a dirty little secret, then. Maybe Mr. Mayor likes sticking it in the infirm and disfigured. I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Detective Tode scowled and opened the passenger seat door. "There's something wrong here. Something in the air. It's like it's rotting alive and falling away in patches. Like the house is sick and eating itself."

"Stop saying weird shit."

Detective Tode shrugged.  Fair enough.  

He got in the car.

***

"I'm staying the night," Enoch announced.  

Beast looked up from his cup of tea. "You most certainly are not."

"Are you throwing me out?"

"Well, not precisely--"

"Then I'm staying the night."

Beast huffed, annoyed. "You have no change of clothes, Enoch, and you're drenched in..." He shook his head. "That cannot possibly be comfortable."

"If you don't mind, I'll just wash it now and wear it again tomorrow.  The trousers are fine."

"Moreover, I have nowhere to put you," Beast said.  "I have a guest bed upstairs--"

"That's certainly good enough for me."

"But even if it had a mattress," Beast went on, "the frame is rotted enough that I doubt it could support your weight.  And the sofa is much too small for you to be at all comfortable."

"I'll sleep wherever, Beast. I won't have you alone on a night like this. If Turtle were here and could be a guard dog, I might feel differently. But as it stands? No."

"Do you really think that there are so many other people who are champing at the bit to see me die?" Beast asked, sounding amused. "I'm flattered, really."

"This is not a laughing matter," Enoch said sternly.  Beast bowed his head, seeming contrite.

"No, you're right. I apologize. I know this has upset you. But the floor is not comfortable," Beast said. "And you'll pardon my observing it, but we are not young men anymore."

"Oh, now you're the one calling us decrepit..."

Beast gave him a narrow-eyed look that probably indicated a grin. "Well, here's an option," he suggested. "If you're willing to take my bed for the night, I will sleep on the sofa."

Enoch lifted his eyebrows. That had certainly not been his intention. "Oh, I could never kick you out of your own bed.  You need a decent night's sleep, after all of this."

"If I manage to sleep tonight, it matters very little whether I do it here or there," Beast replied. "I don't think I'll rest easily either way, so if you are immovable on the subject of staying, you might as well enjoy what comforts the house has."

Enoch looked dissatisfied with this bargain.  "Surely the floor--"

Beast slipped off of the island stool and waved a hand. "I'll go change the sheets."

Enoch watched him go, a little annoyed with himself.  The last thing he wanted to do was to inconvenience Beast, but it seemed that since he had so little information about the house, he really couldn't avoid doing it.  

He knew it was the worst kind of cliché, the old 'Oh Dear Only One Bed Whatever Shall We Do' saw, but he really hadn't intended to use it for its age-old purpose. All he wanted right now was to make sure he was on hand if Beast needed anything at all, and to assuage his own vague fears. If Beast thought he would have a sleepless night, how much less restful would Enoch's hours be, forty miles from Beast's side if anything whatsoever should happen.

He waited in the kitchen, making another, hotter, more heavily honeyed cup of tea to force on Beast as he listened to the other man ranging around upstairs. He had very little idea what to expect from the second floor, really, and could only wait until he was summoned.

He sighed, trying to decide how he was going to report this to Miss Clara.

***

Herod finished making his bed, giving it one final look to check the pillows and fluff one of the many duvets.  Oh, this was going to be humiliating, but what could he do?

He wandered downstairs to fetch Enoch, trying to think how he'd warn him. Everything in him told him not to apologize for his house or his cooking, if he didn't want to call attention to the very flaws he abominated, but there was muttering stupidly over a tangy bay leaf and then there was, well, his bedroom.

Enoch pushed another cup of tea into his hands and Herod took it with a smile behind his veil.  

"Well, come along with me," Herod said. "I suppose at least an attempt at sleep is warranted."

"Agreed."

Herod took the long way around, walking through the dining room and music room so as to avoid the foyer and the terrible bloodstain sitting deep in its weave.  "I should warn you--"

"I do see your house from the outside, Beast," Enoch said gently. "I have some idea."

"Not enough of one," Herod said. "The nights are not yet their coldest, but if you are at all uncomfortable, I insist you tell me immediately."

"Very well."

"That's not a promise."

Enoch smiled at him.

Herod led the way up the steps, which were at least still relatively good. Above, however, a single bare lightbulb illuminated the rotted second floor. The rail that between the floor and the staircase stood flimsy and decaying, balusters missing more often than not.  He didn't think he had to warn Enoch not to touch it.

"I've closed the doors to the empty rooms," Herod said, "but because it takes me some time to set the traps properly, I haven't disabled them. If you'll be so good as to stay in the master bedroom and the bathroom, you'll have no problems at all."

Enoch swallowed behind him. "Of course."

Herod hummed a soft laugh. "Old houses and their little quirks, hmm?"

"Indeed."

Herod took a deep breath and opened his bedroom door, already knowing what there was to it and yet braced for mortification.  

The wide gaps between the ancient hardwood boards stood unsightly and menacing, and the peeling scraps of paint and paper on the walls riddled and pocked the surface like a skin disease.  The ceiling was peeling and pocket, cracked in several places, and when it rained it sometimes leaked and when it blew the air poured in. One of the great, tall windows was boarded up, in an attempt to keep the draft from blowing through the broken panes, while the other window stood dusty and unsealed in its casement.

The soot-charred fireplace yawned like a toothless mouth and Herod restrained himself from hurrying over to attend the flue.  He could certainly have a fire in it, if that would please Enoch, but once it died the room would only be the colder.  

His own furniture choices rose up to embarrass him next, his ornately carved bedframe a nonsensical spot of filigree and drama in the otherwise abandoned room. His linens stood upon it, sheets as crisp and clean as their age could allow them to be, blankets and quilts and a great, threadbare comforter in an unforgiving gleaming scarlet piled high and billowing across the mattress. A pair of endtables bracketed the bed, upon one of which stood an antique and rather weak lamp, the room's only light source. To the side stood his ancient wardrobe, another elaborate affair that only served to highlight the wasteland that was the rest of the room.  

Beneath his veil, Herod blushed with shame. Well. There could be no remaining secret of his poverty and degradation now, no ugliness left hidden except that which was in his skin.

Enoch looked around, his face a perfect picture of mild composure. Surely Herod had truly impressed his guest with this sumptuous boudoir! Who would not be seduced to the point of aching desperation by such luxury as Herod could offer?

Oh, but there was still more, wasn't there?

"The bathroom is at your disposal, of course," Herod said, gesturing towards the rusted-out cankersore clinging to his bedroom's lip. He steeled himself for the final blow. "I should mention that there is no hot water."

"This will be very comfortable, Beast, thank you," Enoch said smoothly. "But please, I never meant to oust you from your bed...won't you let me sleep on the floor?"

"Of course not," Herod replied. "Don't be ridiculous. There are spare blankets in the dresser, here, and if you need anything at all--"

"You're very kind, Beast," Enoch said. "Are you sure there's nothing at all I can do to persuade you to sleep in your own bed...?"

Herod smiled unhappily under his mask. Oh, he wouldn't ask much of Enoch. Just a little thing, like inviting a pajama-less leper to cuddle up next to him in an extra long double bed that would just hold them both, if they were wedged in together...

Somehow he did not expect that offer to be forthcoming. 

"You know where to find me, Enoch," Herod said. "I hope you sleep well."

"Can I trouble you for just one thing?" Enoch asked.

Herod looked at him, nothing so inane as hope welling up in his chest. Mere curiosity, that was all. "Trouble away."

"I have no desire to wear this blood any longer," Enoch smiled rather sadly. "Perhaps I could intrude upon you to--"

Herod nodded. "Of course. Shall I step out?"

"I've nothing to replace it with," Enoch said with a crooked little grin. "So you might was well get an eyeful, for what it's worth."

He attempted to demurely avert his eyes and collect his dressing gown as Enoch undid his cuffs and pulled his hem and tails out of his trousers. But there was only so much dithering he could discreetly accomplish, and soon he found himself obliged to wait and innocently observe while his guest slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Herod tucked his lips into his mouth, gently biting them together and letting his eyes trace the motions of Enoch's clever, dexterous hands as the large digits deftly managed the tiny buttons on his shirt. After the first few buttons, the sight of his luscious brown skin was lost beneath the white undershirt, but Herod immediately perceived a way to fix that.

"I'm afraid the blood leaked through," he said, pleased with how steady his voice sounded, despite all that it had been exposed to this night. "Might as well do the undershirt too, I suppose. It's not as if there will be strange eyes to see you wandering about topless."

"Thank you," Enoch said. "Modesty has her place, but I'd rather be clean all the way down than laundered without and bloody within."

"I couldn't agree more," Herod murmured, never gladder for a mask.  

Enoch passed him the bloodied shirt and Herod held it carefully, reflecting that for a man Enoch's size it was really nothing as much as a tent in his own hand. His guest reached behind his neck and drew his undershirt off in a single fluid motion, revealing a titanic torso covered in flawless, beautiful brown skin and dark, curling chest hair.  Herod's fingers itched to trace that succulent landscape--'O my America, my newfound land,' he thought, like an absolute idiot, because really, poetry?--his mouth watering at the thought of such a heavenly banquet stretched out before him. To be sure, it wasn't a feeling wholly dissimilar to hunger, but what differences there were were stunning and profound. Herod ached. What would it be like, to feast on him properly?

Oh, and Herod could make such a meal of him, and neither knife nor fork would ever feature, because he could certainly glut himself for hours just tasting his way across that sumptuous torso. He wouldn't spare him a bite or two, of course, if only to feel that flesh blood-warm and delicious in his mouth, but he'd be so very sweet about it afterward, and pepper every bite with kisses before shifting down to make up for his momentary cruelty with absolutely everything a soft, hot mouth could do to please. Enoch was distractingly gorgeous, and how Herod wanted to gorge on him...such broad shoulders, such smooth skin; powerful muscles shifting just barely out of sight; nipples tight from the chill in the room; that fantastically plush, round stomach; his thick waist hopefully mimicking other things that were beautiful and full and thick...

Herod swallowed and snapped his eyes up to Enoch's face.

"There," he said, reaching out for the undershirt. "I'll just throw these in the laundry, and let Turtle out for a--" Herod caught himself, the hot little burn of arousal flickering mercilessly out. He cleared his throat, winced, and used the pain to focus. "And then I will turn in.  Good night, Enoch."

Enoch's hands twitched, but he had mercy and did not reach out to embrace Herod good night.  There was no way he could've kept his composure.  

"Sweet dreams, Beast," Enoch said, and Herod managed to smile behind his veil as he closed the door behind him and descended the stairs.


	11. Closet

Turtle’s pack was getting bigger and sometimes that made guard-dogging a little difficult. Daddy was the same as ever, of course, and needed so much protecting, but it seemed like the more tall dogs came to visit Daddy, the more they came and went in the house. It used to be that Daddy was the only tall dog who ever came back out of the basement, but Girl had been allowed to go up and down without trouble, and it was nice to think that now Big was allowed, too. Turtle liked having a bigger pack, even if he was the only one who slept on Daddy’s bed. Maybe they could all pile in together, someday. It would make thunderstorms a lot better.

Daddy and Big were downstairs having fun, and it was Turtle’s job to guard the house. He paced the perimeter now and then, listening to the outside world. He didn’t bark at cars and pedestrians because he wasn’t a stupid puppy, but he kept an eye on them and made sure that nothing happened outside without him knowing about it.

He flumped down on the floor after one sweep and let himself relax, listening intently. Through the basement door, he could hear the soft burbling of the tall dogs.

Outside, on the porch, he heard a creak.

Turtle got to his feet and began to growl, pacing in front of the door. Who was out there? They’d come very quietly up the walk. They were sneaking.

The bolt higher up on the door make a scratching, ticking sound, and then crunching. The knob let out a crack and Turtle growled more deeply, hunkering down and getting ready to spring. He was guarding.

The door broke in and Turtle barked at the sight of the Wood Man. The Wood Man wasn’t allowed to come inside. He was a bad tall dog.

No Wood Man was going to get in without going through Turtle. Turtle launched himself at the Wood Man, aiming for his throat.

The Wood Man had a thing and he hit Turtle in the chest with it, and it hurt, and Turtle cried and fell on the ground. It hurt and hurt, and he couldn't move his foot. His chest burned and ached. He struggled to get back up and hit the Wood Man again, but something was wrong with his foot, and then the Wood Man kicked him so hard in the side that something cracked and Turtle flew across the floor. He growled through the pain and tried to pull himself up again, but the Wood Man came over and swung his leg at Turtle’s head, and--

He woke up in a weird place that smelled bad.

He didn’t like it.

Turtle tried to stretch all his feet. One was missing. He started growling immediately, because his chest hurt and he wanted his foot back. Whoever had taken his foot was going to have to give him one of theirs.

Where was his Daddy? Turtle couldn’t smell him.

He never couldn’t smell Daddy. Where was his Daddy? Where had they taken his Daddy?

Turtle whined for just a second or two before starting to bark. His Daddy had to know where Turtle was so that he could come get him! What if his Daddy was somewhere--what if Wood Man--

Turtle cried a little at the thought of Wood Man and what might happen to Daddy if Turtle wasn’t there to protect him. Daddy needed to be protected so much! He barked and barked and the strange tall dogs around him said “hush” and “it’s okay,” but it wasn’t okay, because they weren’t his Daddy.

He barked for a long time. When some of the tall dogs came near with little pointy sticks, he growled at them and snapped and snarled until they retreated.

He wanted his Daddy. He wanted his foot.

Everything important was gone.

***

After Beast quietly disappeared through the door of his bedroom and left Enoch alone, he stood for a moment or two and looked around him. He'd known that the second floor could not been in good condition, but somehow he'd neglected to completely imagine the boudoir in all its finer details.

It was absolutely perfect. He reflected ruefully that the decay must be a brutal thing for a man of Beast's discriminating and sumptuous tastes to bear, and on that account he was sorry to take such pleasure in what must embarrass his friend, but he could no more stop himself from loving it than he could stop his heart from beating. The huge, old-fashioned furniture, the peeling walls, the rust-red smears on the claw foot tub -- it was all something from a dream.

Enoch washed his face and washed away the remaining dog blood on his skin with the icy water that roared from the old pipes. He consulted the cuts on his forearm beneath the sterile gauze, curious that they were not much less eager to split and drip than they had been when Beast had drunk from him, what felt like a lifetime ago.

Enoch smiled at them, and ran a finger up to pet the healed scar Beast’s teeth had left in his arm. He was festooned, decorated, with Beast’s touches. He glanced at himself in the dusty shard of bathroom mirror, heaving a deep sigh as he ran his fingertips across the scar his Beast had put in his scalp with the candelabra.

He was just fine. He was always fine in this house, somehow. Despite the danger that should have had Beast pushing him away and locking the door behind him, Enoch lived to stand here in the most private spaces of this house.

There were no doors still closed to him, it seemed. Enoch grinned like a fool at his own reflection, giddy with the thought of it.

He returned into the bedroom and approached the bed. The gleaming scarlet comforter caught his eye and he smiled, running his fingertips across the braid cord delineating portions of fabric. It was a joy to see such unrepentant luxury among all the deprivation, to see that Beast still had some comforts and pleasures that were not lost. Enoch peeled apart the covers and took off his belt and trousers, draping them across the bedclothes before slithering between the sheets. The bed was too short for him to lay at full extension, but he wasn't in the habit of sleeping flat on his back, anyway. The sheets were old and worn soft from years of a body rubbing against them, and as they passed across his skin he shuddered, futilely imagining the other skin they'd caressed.

The covers were heavy enough to keep out the room's terrible chill, and Enoch settled happily beneath the blankets before looking over at the end table. Beside the antique lamp there was a small stack of books and an old-fashioned hand-held magnifying glass. Bewitched by this adorable scene and suddenly wondering more intensely than ever if Beast wasn't just a bit blind, Enoch reached out, picked up one of the books, and began paging through it, finding a place marked with a ribbon.

His eye fell on a single line and he grinned again, even more ridiculously than before, feeling his heart swell. " _Je me revois la peau rongée par la boue et la peste, des vers plein les cheveux et les aisselles et encore de plus gros vers dans le coeur..._ "

Skin corroded by disease and dirt, infested with worms. And still-larger worms, crawling in his heart.

Lucky, lucky worms.

Enoch held the book in his hand and turned off the light, laying back on an ancient, battered pillow that smelled like clean linen. He breathed in deeply, looking for Beast's scent, but could not quite find it. A shame. If he couldn't have the man himself, it would've been the next best thing.

He should've insisted more. The thought that Beast was obliged to yield his bed for the night grated on every single one of Enoch's urges.

He tried to let his mind unwind just as he made his body relax, but he would not be still. He laid awake, listening to every creak and shift of the house with a heart that sometimes hammered in his breast. Some of the noises were only Beast's footsteps at the man haunted his ruins, but others--the creak of a beam somewhere, the groan of a pipe, even the hum of the refrigerator--kept him awake and tense. Where was Beast? What was he doing? Was he all right?

It would’ve been better by far to have him here. Enoch ran a thumb across the woven cover of the book and closed his eyes, imagining it. If Beast was here beside him, there would be no doubt of his safety and well-being. All Enoch would have to do would be to reach out and he would be able to feel his friend’s heartbeat, know that he was alive and safe and guarded.

He was beginning to think that encouraging Beast to litigate was a mistake. It would’ve been satisfying, really and truly good, to watch Beast slowly break his attacker down to pieces. Perhaps he would’ve let Enoch participate, if Enoch asked. He was no fighter, it was true, but he had the strength and the size, and more importantly, the will to get creative.

Would Beast like to watch, regal and detached, as Enoch broke the groundskeeper’s spine? Bent his legs the wrong way? Snapped every joint in the hands he’d lifted against Beast? Would that please Enoch’s host, to be able to sit back and relax as someone else finally put on a show for him?

Enoch smiled to himself at the image of his friend sprawled gracefully in a chair in the basement, long fingers idly supporting his head as he watched Enoch perform for him. What would be the more delightful response--Beast quietly tapping the back of one hand with the fingers of the other, in genteel and teasing applause, or Beast taking the Roman approach and giving Enoch the wordless instruction to kill? Perhaps he’d indulge Enoch and remove his glove to give the thumbs-down.

Enoch shifted in bed, spreading his legs a little. He should be ashamed of himself, he knew, but so much adrenaline and fear and aching passion could only be endured for so long. Any other night, after being treated to such a meal, he’d never manage to make it home. He’d end up in his car, desperate for relief, mind desperately full of his dear friend as he lewdly fondled himself to rough completion, teeth gouging into his palms, pretending it was Beast’s bite wrapped around his hand.

It was terribly unbecoming of him, and he wasn’t proud of it, but Enoch was afraid he simply couldn’t get enough of Beast. And if he was to put on a performance for Beast, he would be greedy there, too, and he’d want more. He so very much wanted to give Beast something, honor him with an offering and entertain him with a show, but he was selfish enough to want something for himself, as well. Beast’s detachment was lovely and his frosty composure was as exquisite as crystal, but there was a part of Enoch that wanted to know how beautiful it was to watch it shatter and see what was underneath.

It would be a heavenly thing, to receive neither applause nor instruction but sheer excitement and joy, to hear Beast gasp with surprised delight or emit that wretched laugh. It would be so delicious, to witness a quiver wracking its way through Beast’s body, to watch him tightly cross those long legs and stare at Enoch with wide eyes. It would be enough to make Enoch drop to his knees, to listen to the gurgled whimpering of their victim as Beast slipped off his glove and offered his hand to Enoch. What it would do to him, if Enoch could take kisses from Beast's palm and feel those naked fingers glide across his face.

Imagine, if Beast would let Enoch take away the scarf around his neck, let Enoch see his long and beautiful and vulnerable throat, let him nuzzle against Beast’s skin, feel his pulse under his lips, kiss the purple-red contusions better. If Beast would let him suck the groundskeeper’s blood off of Beast’s fingers.  Or let Enoch have another mouthful of Beast's blood, let him lick Beast’s blood straight off of his skin, hot and fresh from the vein.  Or, oh, best of all, let Enoch taste his own blood in Beast’s mouth.

Imagine, if Beast would let Enoch hold him, much closer even than he had in front of the police. If Beast would let Enoch cup his neck, breath his scent--if Beast would wrap his arms around Enoch’s shoulders, cling back just as desperately as Enoch clung to him. If Beast could know he was safe and adored with Enoch, would relax and let Enoch feel him melt against his body...

If Beast would let Enoch feel his heartbeat. Know he was all right. Shield him. Guard him.

Please him.

It was a long and sleepless night. Enoch dozed and yearned and feared and dreamed, but he never slept.

At last the sun began to toast the sky and he decided it was not untoward if he got up. He hadn’t heard Beast’s movements in some hours, and upon realizing that, exhaustion gave way to foolish concern and he quickly redressed and left the bedroom. He hastily dug a blanket out of the drawer, to give himself some protection against the morning chill, and left the bedroom as quickly as he could. He’d make the bed later.

He found Beast in the living room, laying on his side on the sofa and wearing a long black dressing gown. The man had his black veil draped over his head, but Enoch could hear his breathing and smiled at the sound, relieved that Beast had finally managed to get some rest. Beast’s hands were bare, the right arm tucked alongside him, hand resting on his side, while the left arm curled around his head. Self-conscious, even in sleep.

There was a blanket folded over one arm of the sofa. Enoch carefully spread it across his sleeping friend and, after an instant’s thought, put the blanket across his own shoulders over him, too, covering his head as well, just in case the veil came loose.

Beast’s body shifted a bit beneath the covers and Enoch smiled at the thought that his body did seem to relax a little. It was probably only wishful thinking, but he’d take it.

Enoch set himself to making the house livable as quietly as he could. He started the coffee and kindled a fire in the living room fireplace, not at all enjoying the morning chill on his bare skin.

He wanted to retrieve his shirt but didn’t feel up to braving the basement just yet.

He found Beast’s tablet charged and sitting on the counter in the kitchen, and woke it with a few quick touches. Beast wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it, would he? Enoch poured himself a cup of coffee and found his reading glasses in the pocket of his overcoat, and took himself, coffee, and tablet to the sitting room to read the news.

He had about an hour’s solitude before the body on the sofa began to shift. Enoch glanced up when he heard Beast sigh and apparently stretch contentedly, and observed as this graceful stirring disappeared in a choke of breath and ripple of startled waking jump beneath the covers. Beast’s arms shifted and flew to his head, but after a little groping, he soon settled again.

A long, ruined hand slipped from beneath the covers and reached for the coffee table. It bumped against the edge and twisted, bouncing fingertips across a coaster and dancing across the surface before it found the edge of a book and creeped spiderlike up to the tranquil silver face sitting atop a small pile of novels. The hand seized the mask by the eyeholes and hooked a finger around the gloves sitting beneath it, drawing the whole thing back beneath the covers. Enoch was fairly sure that the gloves were the leather ones he’d bought Beast.

Adorable.

Beast shifted beneath the covers for a few instants before he slithered out of the blankets and sat up, looking blearily about him. His head was uncovered.

Enoch’s eyebrows rose and he couldn’t resist the smile that quirked his lips. The years had turned Beast’s once-dark hair a slatey salt-and-peppery grey, liberally dressed with streaks of stress-induced white. His dear friend had become a silver fox. How charming.

Enoch’s eyes dropped down a little lower. Oh! Hello. That dressing gown was rather deeply cut, wasn’t it, and apparently Beast’s conception of nightclothes did not include a shirt. What a treat; that hideously white skin had more than a few mottles and scars to show beneath the silvery hair on his host’s chest.

Well, one could list any number of criticisms about the house’s stability and structure, but it did have an absolutely ravishing view in the morning.

Beast blinked a little, apparently still sleepy, and caught sight of Enoch with a jolt and a widening of his eyes. His hand reached up and held the lapels of his dressing gown closed, shoulders hunching over to protect and hide his chest.

Enoch smiled at him.

“Good morning,” he said softly. “I’m glad you got a little rest.”

Beast’s eyes darted to the windows and back at Enoch.

“I’m--” Beast tried to say. His voice came out in a hoarse croak and the hand that demurely gripped his dressing gown flew to his throat, body pulling in on itself as he swallowed. A soft noise of pain left him and Enoch rose to his feet, concerned.

Beast held out a hand to stop him and Enoch watched him, warily perching on the edge of his seat in case he could be of any service.

Beast cleared his throat and swallowed again.

“It can’t be seven yet,” Beast rasped. “I'm sorry. The bed is not as comfortable as it might be."

"What?" Enoch asked, incredulous.

“You’re awake so early,” Beast said heavily.

"I--why, Beast, have you be laboring under the impression that Pottsfield is a metropolis?" Enoch laughed. "I’m a creature of habit, that’s all, and my habit is to be up with the cock every morning. It’s no insult intended towards your mattress. I was as comfortable as humanly possible. If there’s any bed I could stay in for hours at a time in perfect contentment, I assure you it is yours."

Beast hummed quietly and scooted himself the rest of the way out of the blankets. He fidgeted with the drape of his robe, carefully keeping himself concealed. Enoch smiled fondly at him and got to his feet.

"When did you finally sleep?" Enoch asked him, as he walked towards the kitchen. "I heard you puttering around at about, oh, two a.m."

"Apologies,” Beast said, watching him go. “I suppose I must’ve fallen asleep around four. I couldn't...quite get comfortable.”

“Did the pain keep you up?” Enoch asked, pouring Beast a cup of coffee and pulling the plates he’d put together out of the refrigerator.

“It didn’t bed me down,” Beast replied dryly.

Enoch smiled to himself. “Fair point.”

He poured a glass of water, found a small tray in one of the cabinets, and brought the whole spread out to his host. This was the second time now that he’d made some kind of breakfast in Beast’s house. A pleasant recurrence, to be sure. He could certainly stand to do it more often.

Beast looked up at him and his burden and mutely received the cup of coffee Enoch passed him, bowing his head in thanks. Enoch set the tray down on the coffee table and heard Beast shifting behind him. When he turned, Beast had the veil thrown over his head and face and the coffee mug was nowhere to be seen.

“Is that the heart?” Beast croaked, gesturing towards the tray.

“It is,” Enoch replied. “And I took some of the gelatin, too. I can’t imagine you want anything that needs much chewing or hard swallowing, but I thought a little dose of protein might do you some good. ”

“Well it may,” Beast murmured. He shoved the blankets to the far side of the sofa and waved a hand over the freed space on the couch. “Please.”

“Thank you.” Enoch sat down beside Beast with his own plate and took a bite of the meat. Even so far removed from the atmosphere and the grandeur of the evening before, in the light of day it was still a very pretty thing, terrifically lean and red, delicate and far less tough than he’d imagined such a hard-working muscle would be. He ate a slice and smiled, for cold as it was, it was almost as good the morning after.

Beast only sat with his coffee, both hands under his veil and wrapped around his mug. He didn’t seem to drink, apparently content just to sit there for a while and have the warmth.

That wasn’t enough.

“I won’t be satisfied until you eat something,” Enoch said.

“Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have an insatiable house guest,” Beast rasped. “Let a man wake up a little before you demand miracles of fine motor control from him. I’m too weak and fragile to face it, now.”

Enoch grinned at this response. He had been surprised by how little he liked it, when the man accepted all of Enoch’s mother-henning without any of the usual protests. Beast must be either very tired or in more pain than Enoch could see, if he was mutely enduring all of Enoch’s solicitude, and it delighted him to hear Beast sounding more like himself.

“No one who has ever seen you fight for your life would ever confuse you for fragile, Beast,” Enoch said.

“I had thought it was a very demure nose-biting,” Beast replied, drinking his coffee.

“Well, of course! I’ve never seen one more elegant,” Enoch teased, “but all the same--”

The doorbell rang. It rang again, and again, and again.

Beside him, Beast went rigid. Enoch put his plate on the table and started to rise, but Beast’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Beast, let me--”

"No," Beast said, leaning out and putting his coffee on the table. "You're not presentable. I'll be right back."

"Beast--"

"It's broad daylight, Enoch," Beast croaked. "And if I'm unfortunate enough to face another attempt on my life in such short order, I know you'll be unbound and primed for action."

Enoch frowned at him. "I'll be watching. Very closely."

Beast rose to his feet with a little shake of his head and Enoch watched him walk down the foyer, trading veil for mask as he did so and loosely wrapping the cloth around his throat and into his dressing gown.

Enoch stood in the kitchen and observed.

The doorbell stopped ringing and instead there came a hammering on the door. Enoch frowned severely to hear this onslaught, but Beast just opened the door.

Lorna’s voice rang out. “Oh, Herod!”

Enoch watched as the girl threw herself at Beast and wrapped both arms around him, squeezing tight. Beast let out a rough grunt and his hands fell onto the girl’s back. Her hands gripped her own forearms and she clung tightly to him, already talking.

“Oh, Herod! Herod! Thank goodness you’re all right!” she cried frantically. She pulled herself back, releasing the man and patting at him with hurried, worried hands. “Are you all right? What happened? What happened?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Beast replied, but the scraping and cracking of his voice gave lie to his words.

"What's wrong with your voice?" the girl asked. "Are you hurt?"

"Ah,” Beast admitted, “perhaps a little--"

Lorna folded her lips into her mouth and reached for his neck. Beast recoiled and covered his neck with both hands.

"What's wrong, Herod?" the girl insisted. "You're injured!"

“I…” Beast croaked. “Let's just say I hurt my neck."

"How badly? You might have to go to the hospital!" Enoch almost smiled. It was nice to know that Beast had someone else close by who thought more or less as Enoch did.

"No!" Beast snapped, and even Enoch winced as his voice cracked painfully. "No, Lorna. I'm fine."

"Fine! With a hurt neck, all alone in this house, when the police were swarming last night--"

“Now, now,” Enoch said, deciding that the girl deserved some little reassurance that Beast hadn’t been left all by himself.

Two heads snapped around to stare at him.

"Don't you recall?” Enoch said. “It was a Friday night, and you can have my assurance that I most certainly did not leave him alone."

Lorna’s eyes widened and the girl’s hands flew to her mouth as her cheeks went red. Enoch looked at her, bewildered, and glanced at Beast for an explanation.

“Let me just get your shirt, Enoch,” Beast said weakly, and embarrassment coiled along Enoch’s neck. Ah.

Oh, dear.

Beast disappeared into the basement.

Lorna was still bright red, but she looked Enoch up and down.

“Bless my heart,” she said softly.

Enoch rolled his eyes a little. “Thank you, I’m sure,” he remarked dryly. “This is not--”

“I mean, you’re not small, obviously, but...my stars and garters, you made him lose his voice?” the girl hissed, sounding astonished.

Enoch’s mouth dropped open and he goggled for a few seconds, astonished.

“I--no!” he snapped, scandalized. “He was attacked.”

Lorna lifted her eyebrows and gave him a skeptical look.

“By his groundskeeper,” Enoch added sharply.

Lorna’s expression immediately registered dread and concern, and she hurriedly closed the front door. “What happened? And what--”

She sniffed the air, looking around. “What’s that smell? I smell…”

The girl went pale. “Blood, oh my God, I smell blood, Mr. Barnes, where is it? What happened?”

Beast appeared at the top of the steps with Enoch’s shirts and passed them to him. Enoch took them with a nod and tried to make himself scarce as Lorna trembled.

“Herod, what happened?” she cried. “I smell blood and your voice is wrecked and there were policemen everywhere--”

Beast darted a look at Enoch. Enoch hastily assumed his most innocent expression.

“I’m not going to talk about it on my feet,” Beast sighed. “Everything is fine, Lorna, but come into the living room and I’ll tell you what happened.”

***

He didn’t let any of the tall dogs come near him. Not without his Daddy.

Finally, ages after he woke up, the far door opened and a wave of good smell wafted towards Turtle. He sniffed it for a second and started to bark all over again, big happy barks, and his tail slammed so hard against the walls of his prison that the box shook. He started to jump on his three feet.

“Oh, that’s my Good Boy,” Daddy said, immediately dropping on the ground. He burbled something over his shoulder at another tall dog and that tall dog left the room. “Hello, my Good Boy. How’s my sweet Boy?”

Daddy reached out and undid the thing on the prison Turtle bolted out and wiggled at Daddy, rubbing against him even though it really hurt.

Daddy took off his gloves and his silver face and pet Turtle’s head and neck, rubbing their snouts together. “Oh, my Good Boy. Who’s my Good Boy?”

Turtle licked Daddy’s face, all his scratches and bumps and scars, tail wagging so hard it shook his butt around. It wasn’t easy to balance without his foot, and it wasn’t easy to see out of one eye, but Daddy was here and Daddy smelled okay, even if his howl was broken.

“Oh, I missed you, Turtle,” Daddy said. “Oh, yes. That’s my Boy.”

He burbled something, a few little things, and Turtle barked back, headbutting his Daddy in the chest. Daddy smelled like Home and Big and Girl and pain and fear, like lots of and lots of pain and fear. He almost smelled like the Bad House and Turtle whimpered and growled, worried about his Daddy.

They should leave. They would get outside and Daddy would see that Turtle was fine, and Turtle would see that Daddy was fine, and they would be okay, and he’d kill the Wood Man like a squirrel and bring Daddy a present.

Daddy had a rope with him and looped it around Turtle’s neck, like they sometimes did when they had to pretend that Turtle was a stupid puppy. Turtle didn’t like pretending to be a stupid puppy, but it was fine as long as they left soon. Daddy put on his face and hands and they walked out through the place. Turtle wiggled again when he saw Big waiting for them, and remembered a little bit too late that he could pull Daddy off his feet and had to stop and be Good when Daddy clicked his tongue in No Uncertain Manner.

They piled into a car that could only have been Big’s, from the smell, and Turtle stretched out across Daddy’s lap and licked his hand while Daddy gave him a belly rub. They rode all the way Home and went inside together.

Girl was waiting for them, and she petted him all over and cooed at him. Daddy gave him a big dish of lots of different kinds of meats to eat while the tall dogs sat at the table and had a meal. They burbled together for a long time, Daddy shaking his head now and then and petting Turtle almost constantly, and finally they brought out Daddy’s burbling stick. Turtle stayed quiet and took a nap while Daddy burbled into the stick, his poor creaky bark sounding very scratchy.

Oh, well. He’d get better. Turtle could encourage him to howl later in the day. It’d be good for him.

It was nice to be Home.

***

"Auntie," Lorna said.

Ms. Whispers looked up from her sewing with a small smile. It fell off her face at the sight of her niece standing in the doorway and trembling. "Lorna?"

Lorna's fingers tightened on the door frame. "Auntie," she repeated. "Herod was attacked."

Ms. Whispers twitched an eyebrow and nodded her head once, dropping her eyes again to her project. "My, my. What happened?"

"He was hanged in his own house!" Lorna snapped. "By the groundskeeper!"

"Indeed? Hanged until dead?"

"No," Lorna said tightly. "But he's badly hurt."

Ms. Whispers smiled quietly. "Well, it's about time."

Lorna made a little incoherent noise of rage.

"How could you say that?" she cried. "What did you do, Auntie?"

Ms. Whispers paused and looked at her niece. "Nothing at all. I only listened while my friend mentioned his concerns about the leper. He represented his fears in a very poignant way and I mentioned that I was not insensitive to the peril of the situation."

"You encouraged him! You encouraged him to hurt Herod!"

"I said that I was not sure of your safety in that house. I only told the truth, because I'm not at all sure."

Lorna seized her own head. "How could you? Auntie, he's my friend!"

"He's a danger to you," Ms. Whispers said calmly. "He's untrustworthy and he tried to attack you. I'll never forgive it."

Lorna snarled. "Well, Herod attacked your 'friend' right back, and bit his nose off! He certainly won't be so handsome now, will he?! And Mr. Barnes was right there the whole time! He's a very credible witness and he supports Herod's whole story! And the groundskeeper is in police custody and Herod is going to help with the felony charge against him, so your little scheme didn't work at all!"

Ms. Whispers didn't know who this Mr. Barnes was supposed to be, and frowned a little, but at the news that her friend was in custody, she smiled.

"Excellent," she said quietly. "Well, that's two birds with one stone."

Lorna paused in her wrath and gave her aunt a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"Your friend is a liability to you, Lorna," Ms. Whispers said, putting a pin between her lips, "but my friend was a liability to you, too. We'd only have so much time until he found out what you do, and who could know what ideas he'd get into his head about you needing to be put away for your own good?"

Lorna stared at her.

"This is much nicer," Ms. Whispers said. "I don't mind visiting him in prison, not at all. He's a good man. And it will do him some good to get out of this neighborhood a little...perhaps he'll be able to find a job in the penitentiary library. He's had such a diifficult time of finding employment, after all."

Lorna's mouth popped open. She emitted a soft noise.

"And a nose doesn't too matter much when you get to my age," Ms. Whispers added. "One stops caring so much for handsome men and starts to prefer the good ones, anyway."

Lorna drew in a slow breath. "Did you have to involve Herod?" she asked weakly. "If you had only heard his poor voice..."

"I would be happy to see him dead, Lorna," Ms. Whispers said. "I'm sorry that he's your friend, but I'll never like him. I didn't go out of my way to try and injure him, but that doesn't mean I don't wish it. The fact is that that the only way I could've gotten my dear friend out of the way was to drive him to something drastic, and the leper is the only one who excites that kind or urge in him. I didn't care much one way or the other, but If my friend had managed to hang him, I would not have shed a single tear."

"I would've," Lorna insisted coldly.

"And I would've been grieved for that much, at least," Ms. Whispers said with a smile. "Who is Mr. Barnes, incidentally?"

"You met him that night you embarrassed me at dinner. He's Herod's...old friend."

"No accounting for taste," Ms. Whispers said, pinching the pleats. "What kind of man is he?"

"Kind. Very polite. He's a mayor."

Ms. Whispers glanced up at her niece, surprised. "A mayor? And he visits the leper?"

Lorna nodded.

"Well. Who knew. I suppose he has a lot to lose, doesn't he?"

"Auntie, he's done nothing to us," Lorna insisted quietly.

Ms. Whispers waved a hand. "He's sympathetic to the leper, not to you, Lorna."

"I know that," Lorna said. "But please, he's not guilty by association."

Ms. Whispers breathed a sigh and thought about things for a moment. "I have no interest in doing anything rash," she said slowly. "Right now I'm very content with things where they stand. You say the leper is cooperating with the police?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Then they'll be watching him closely, and he'll be especially careful with you." Ms. Whispers smiled and began pinning the rest of the hem. "No, Lorna, you don't need to have any fear for your friend's sake."

"I love him very much, Auntie," Lorna said firmly. "He's one of my best friends. I won't be happy if you try to hurt him again."

"I won't hurt him unless it proves necessary," Ms. Whispers said mildly. "All I am concerned about is your safety, my dear. I'll never put anyone else's needs ahead of yours, you must know that."

Lorna looked at her for a moment and bowed her head. "...thank you, Auntie. I know you love me."

"Good."

"I'm staying the night with Herod," she said. "I'm telling you. I’m not asking your permission."

Ms. Whispers tightened her lips. "Well, you're certainly not getting it, in any event."

Lorna nodded her head. "I'll have my phone. You'll be able to get me if you need me."

Ms. Whispers stayed silent.

Lorna turned away from the doorway and disappeared down the hall.

Not the best possible situation, Ms. Whispers thought, as she pressed the pedal of her sewing machine. Still. It was better than nothing.

She'd have to look up what kinds of presents one could bring to prisoners.

***

Miss Clara was walking down Main Street with her groceries when she spotted Enoch's car pulling up to the curb. When he stepped out of his vehicle, her eyes widened and she looked around, scandalized and concerned that someone else might see him. How could he be so bold? Only just coming back home now, long past noon? The rumor mill was going to fall over itself!

Enoch gave her a weary smile--he may well have cause to be weary, goodness gracious!--and reached out for some of her bags.

"May I walk you home, Miss Clara?" he asked.

"Of course, Enoch, thank you," she said. "That's a nice outfit."

"Coming from you, praise on such a matter is very much to be appreciated. Thank you."

"Only it does look so much like yesterday's," she observed in an undertone. "I take it you had a pleasant evening with Dr. Bethlehem?"

Enoch's body slumped and his expression grew very grave. "No," he said firmly. "It would have been a very nice evening indeed, but around nine o’clock, Dr. Bethlehem was attacked and badly injured."

Miss Clara almost dropped the eggs.

"Is he all right?" she demanded. "But you were right there! What happened, Enoch, what happened?"

Enoch recounted his evening--a quiet supper, a illicit smoke break (he had started again, the wicked, wicked man, she was going to have to be all over him about it, but then again the horror of the evening might be just the thing to make him finally and completely quit), the break-in, the poor dog, and that hideous, hideous scene. Miss Clara begged him to stop and to allow some of the details to stay within his own mind, for the very image of poor Dr. Bethlehem hanging by the neck was enough to make her feel almost faint.

Worst of all was Enoch's expression. He was heartbroken, and horrified, and she could see what a toll it had taken on him. Miss Clara had no beau of her own, but she could hardly imagine a more nightmarish thing than to see one's dearest beloved tortured before one's eyes.

"Of course you had to stay with him!" Miss Clara cried aloud, as she unlocked her door. "Come in and I'll make some tea. Are you going back tonight?"

"I would very much like to--"

"And you should! I'm sure Dr. Bethlehem will appreciate it. I mean, I would be so horribly rattled that I'd never rest easily if I was alone!"

"--but I believe a friend has already volunteered to remain in the house, and I would not wish to impose." Enoch ran a hand across his head. "I don't wish to make a nuisance of myself. There's only the one bed in the house."

Miss Clara couldn't work up the mischief to bobble her eyebrows. "What can we do for him, Enoch? I'm sure a prosecutor will be assigned to the case, but should we help Mr. Bethlehem find a lawyer of his own?"

"I'm trying to determine that for myself, yes," Enoch said. He rubbed his eyes. "Forgive me, Miss Clara, I didn't sleep last night."

"Oh, Enoch," she crooned. "How horrible this all is!"

"There is one thing that Beast--that Dr. Bethlehem has asked me to do," Enoch said. "And your brother may well be invaluable."

"Anything! Of course! Clark will be insane with worry."

Enoch reached into his shirt pocket and passed her the flash drive. "Dr. Bethlehem insisted on making a recording to say he couldn't make a recording. Do you think Clark could tighten it up and push it out? Beas--Dr. Bethlehem is a showman at heart and if he absolutely must cancel a performance, he wants to do it personally."

"Such a gentleman," Miss Clara sighed. "But...if he was hanged, then...?"

Enoch's mouth twisted and his eyes fell to his hands, which he slowly rubbed against each other.

"It's very hard to listen to," he said at last. "I strongly suggest that you warn your brother before you have him play it."

Miss Clara bit her lip and put a hand on Enoch's arm.

"We'll do something good for him," Miss Clara said. "I'll call Parson Bleak and ask him to make an announcement tomorrow."

"Oh, please don’t," Enoch said, shaking his head. "Be--Dr. Bethlehem would be embarrassed, I think, if he knew that so many people learned what had happened before he had a chance to tell them himself.”

Miss Clara frowned. "Oh, Enoch, I'm so sorry."

Enoch smiled thinly. "Thank you, but it's all over now...or it's mostly over, anyway. Beast is safe and sound, and once we get a court date, we can begin to put it behind us." Enoch ran his hand over his head again. "I think I'll go home and try to get some rest."

"Will you be able to sleep?"

"I suppose I'll have to, eventually," Enoch replied. "But if I absolutely can't bear it and must go back to Woodlawn, I'll let you know in advance."

Miss Clara smiled sweetly. "I'll be right here, Enoch, for anything you need."

Enoch smiled and quietly took his leave.

Miss Clara watched him go and immediately phoned Clark, instructing him to come over immediately. She didn't dare tell her mother what had happened, for that was a surefire way to make sure this was all over Pottsfield by supper. Enoch was sure to have a hard enough time without having to field a thousand breathless questions about the well-being of the darling, delightful Dr. Bethlehem.

And just when things had been going so well!

***

"Policemen," Lorna muttered.

Herod nodded his head. He agreed entirely.

"It puts us in a rather precarious position," he rasped, "but Enoch was very right. It was the only thing that could've been done."

"You could've killed him," Lorna said.

"No, no," Herod said, "think critically. It's a waste of a felony. And what if he left behind some kind of accusation or screed against me? It only looks more suspicious if he disappears after having said he'd confront me."

Lorna gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "I don't really see the benefits you seem to see. We can't pin everything on him. It'll only look suspicious when the bodies don't stop appearing."

Herod ran his fingertips around his wine glass. "That's not entirely true. We'd just have to be much more careful. No public displays."

"You know how I feel about that," Lorna said in a slightly sulky tone. "I won't give it up, Herod. I won't be an animal."

"There are other ways, you realize, to create something meaningful," Herod said. "It doesn't have to be a spectacle."

Lorna huffed. "You mean I should just do what you do? Lock myself indoors, alone, and hide with a paring knife and a bottle of saffron? I'm not like you, Herod--I can't spend my days being so very pleased with my own cleverness."

Herod lifted his eyebrows at this stinging sentence, and was totally uncertain if he was pleased or not by the way Lorna seemed to realize that he'd done it. She rubbed a hand over her face.

"I've been picking fights with everyone, today," she said softly.

"I merely assumed you're feeling a little frightened at the moment," Herod said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Herod said, pouring her a little more wine. "I'm thoroughly pleased to see you expressing some kind of vexation. I thought the day would never come."

Lorna snorted at him and sipped her drink.

"And I hope you do know I didn't mean that you should follow my example," Herod said.

Lorna sighed. "Well. So we won't pin it on him. What's the next step?"

Herod sat back in his seat and sank his fingers into Turtle's fur. "I imagine there will be some kind of process leading up to a trial. I don't know when the prosecutor will contact me. I haven't even given my formal statement yet."

Lorna bit her lips. "I don't like it, Herod," she said quietly. "This feels dangerous."

"Only for me," Herod replied. "You're still perfectly at your liberty, as I'm sure you know. I'll take the attention for a while, and when it’s your turn and someone attempts to murder you, you can bear the brunt of scrutiny for me."

Lorna grinned a little, but it soon fell off her face. "Oh. But I'm not at my liberty. Not at all."

Herod frowned. "How so?"

"I promised Auntie Whispers. If I could go a month without being wicked, she would let me go to school," Lorna said.

"How long ago did you make this promise?"

"Not two days," Lorna replied quietly.

Herod did some rapid calculations and swallowed roughly around the ache in his throat. The evening before had been a splurge. He'd been pulling out all the stops and known it at the time.

"Do you...happen to have anything?" Lorna asked, horror dawning in her voice. "I have a few things in the refrigerator, but..."

He had maybe a calf left in the freezer. Possibly some scraps here and there. Even with his most careful rationing, it wouldn't last more than a few weeks, much less the however-many months between now and the trial.

He said nothing.

Across from him, Lorna went pale.

"I don't have enough to last a fortnight," she confessed.

"Stone soup," he replied. "We'll make it work."

Later in the evening, he saw the girl settled on the sofa with as many of the blankets as he felt he could reasonably spare, and lit a fire for her in the living room fireplace before mounting the stairs to his own bedroom. There were a thousand fears and complications twisting in his mind as he rose along the steps.

This could not possibly work. He could not possibly survive this. His nerves would surely snap.

But every thought of the kind dried up when he set foot into his bedroom and flicked on his bedside lamp. When he’d ventured up here in the morning to check himself over, bathe, and dress, the bed had been in something of a tangle and he’d left it to deal with, later.

But Enoch had made the bed.

It even looked like Enoch made it, Herod realized, staring at the comforter gleaming blood-red in the yellow lamplight. It seemed that Enoch draped his blankets, letting them sprawl and lie cloudlike on the mattress, instead of pulling them into the severely folded tucks Herod tended to use. Perhaps that alone said absolutely everything about them. Herod had always had pillows, of course, and plenty of them, but they didn’t usually look so plush and round and full, or were ever so nicely arranged.

He swallowed.

He’d intended to strip the bed and change the sheets, but now…

Well, wouldn’t it be such a shame to destroy the bed? After all of Enoch’s sweet solicitude, wouldn’t that be very ungracious?

Herod held part of his lower lip between his teeth and ventured into the bathroom. He gave himself a very cursory check, but of course there was nothing, because it had been a quiet day and by now he knew his dead spots well. He brushed his teeth. When he finally stepped into the bedroom again, he couldn’t face the bed, and chose instead to give himself a treat and light a fire in the fireplace, if only to have something to do with his hands that wasn’t--well.

At last he could distract himself no more and he walked over to stand beside the bed.

“You’re being absurd,” he muttered to himself, stripping out of his gloves. “It’s your own bed, you pathetic imbecile. It’s a mere courtesy.”

Herod unwound his neckcloth and headscarf, laying them carelessly on the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and scowled at the thought that Enoch must’ve seen how grey he’d gone, not that it mattered. A man like him could not afford vanity, but here he was.

He removed his shoes and socks and started on the buttons of his shirt. On the end table, his books were out of order, he saw, and--oh, no, his magnifying glass.

He paused after he removed his overshirt. This is where he should stop. Maybe he could lose his turtleneck, maybe, but that was all. It was cold in the room, biting, and even the fire at his side didn’t help him feel any less the horrible chill of encroaching winter. Perhaps this would be the year he finally froze in his bed.

Herod’s fingers quivered, from cold, certainly, as he pulled off his mask and stripped off his turtleneck. He undid his belt and the fly of his trousers and let them fall to the ground. He reached out and peeled open the bed, half-hoping for a short-sheeting or some equally juvenile prank, anything that would snap his tension.

But there was nothing. Just his sheets.

He reached out and ran his left hand across the bed. Here. Right here, it must’ve been, because he could swear it was still impossibly warm. He stroked the sheets again and swallowed. His body prickled warm and fierce all over. He gnawed on the inside of his mouth, skin flushing.

Herod took off his undergarments and slipped naked into bed. He buried his face into the battered old pillow and inhaled deeply and--

Oh. It was faint, to be certain, and in all likelihood it was wishful thinking, but Herod could swear it was there.

He nuzzled into the pillow, shifting to stroke his skin against the sheets. It smelled like him, just a little bit, Enoch’s scent in the linens of his bed. Who cared, who cared at all, if it was innocent? It was plush and it could be warm, it would be, soon, and it smelled like Enoch. Enoch had been here, skin to Herod’s sheets, bare in Herod’s bed.

Herod drew the throw pillows closer to him and wedged in snug against them, releasing a breath that was only a little shaky as he wriggled and writhed. So soft. The hint of it, the thought of it, the way it made him want to, need to--ah, he had some ideas, but he hardly knew what precisely it was he was after.

Pavlov would probably find him fascinating.

Herod reached out and took one of the smaller throw pillows, pressing what was left of his nose to it and inhaling. Yes, oh, that was so nice. This must have touched Enoch, but where? His head? His neck? Was Enoch one of those people who slept with his arm wrapped around something? Herod didn’t remember seeing a body pillow in that bedroom of earthly delights, but perhaps Enoch liked to have something to put a leg over…

He shuddered and slid the pillow beneath the covers and pressed it against his pelvis, rolling his hips shamelessly forward into it. Soft, so soft, so lovely and cool, growing hotter, his cock hard against something so plush. Herod turned his head and set his teeth into his pillow, grinding the little throw against himself with the full force of his hand. Oh, right there…

Right here. Enoch had been right here, less than twenty hours ago, and Herod could’ve touched him, from just an arm’s reach, no more. He’d been right here, half naked in Herod’s bed, maybe--

Maybe he slept naked, too?

Herod huffed a breath and spread his legs, wedging the cushion between them and squeezing his thighs together. Enoch was strong, handsome...and he must surely be virile. Had he woken up hard this morning?

This was obscene, filthy. It should be repulsive, and he was repulsive, wriggling wantonly over something as pedestrian and unsanitary as used sheets, rutting like an animal. He bit his pillow harder, needing something in his mouth, and pressed his nose deeper into it, wanting to smell Enoch’s skin, his sweat, his blood--

Oh, his blood, his rot, his meat, pressing against Herod’s tongue and the walls of his mouth, filling him up, slipping down his throat. The memory of being on his knees and staring, helpless and desperately hungry, as Enoch’s blood spilled jewel-like and crimson out of the clean, pretty ridges of his opened flesh, the wounds Herod had put on his body gaping open and just begging for a kiss, a lick, a slow, wet suck…

On his end table, the tablet lit up and dinged insistently. Herod let out a pathetic whimper and released his bite with a gasp.

He was getting a call.

He knew who it was. Why, who else could it be?

Herod whined softly. He didn’t want to answer it, but if he didn’t pick up, Enoch would surely worry, and oh, God, the last thing he needed was the man racing down here in a panic.

Herod reached out and swiped across the screen with trembling fingers. He rapidly turned off the camera function.

“Yes?” he rasped.

“Evening, Beast,” Enoch said. Herod flopped back against his bed and tried not to breathe loudly. “How are you?”

“In the seven hours since we last saw each other? Perfectly well,” he replied. “Thank you. How are you?” 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Enoch asked. Herod imagined his eyebrow climbing up his forehead. “Your voice is a bit...how shall I put it?”

Herod lifted up a hand and ground the heel into his eye socket. Yes, he knew. The last undeniably beautiful thing he had to offer and it was ruined.

“Would you say I sound a little high-strung?” he volunteered.

Enoch let out a startled boom of a laugh which he stifled as soon as he could, and commenced to scolding. “This really isn’t a laughing matter, Beast,” he said.

“I thought you liked my gallows humor,” Beast sighed. Enoch let out a low, warm chuckle and it zipped straight to Herod’s prick, giving him a needy little throb. Embarrassed, he dragged the throw pillow out from under the covers and hurled it across the room, only barely missing the fire. He was a laughingstock.

“It’s distractingly lovely,” Enoch assured him wryly. “I’m glad to hear it’s undamaged. But are you all right?”

Herod reached out and brought the tablet close, settling it on the mattress beside him.

“Yes,” Herod replied quietly. “I haven’t been so coddled and looked-after in years. If I sound a little odd, it’s just because you caught me in bed.”

“Oh,” Enoch said. “I apologize, Beast, I should let you rest.”

“No, please, don’t,” Herod grumbled. “I haven’t been let to do anything but rest all day. I thought you were the one with the mothering instinct, but you’re not a patch on Lorna. I’m surprised she didn’t tuck me in.”

As soon as he’d said it, Herod remembered that this morning he had woken up beneath blankets he hadn’t spread over himself. He rubbed his eyes.

“Well, I’ve got the edge on her for that one, don’t I?” Enoch said cheerfully.

“You’re such a giver,” Herod quipped.

“Speaking of giving, is there anything you’d particularly like for breakfast tomorrow?”

Herod lifted his eyebrows, surprised. “We’ve already made the recording, Enoch. Don’t tell me your memory is going.”

“So we have! But we haven’t had Sunday breakfast.”

Oh, the contents of the icebox were going to go very, very fast. This was going to be a rough few months.

“Of course,” Herod murmured. “How stupid of me.”

“I think Mrs. Pearson will be bringing apple beignets to coffee hour after church,” Enoch said. Herod smiled despite himself. Ah, Pottsfield. “I’m sure she would consider it an absolute insult if she weren’t allowed to send some along with me.”

Herod rolled onto his stomach and stretched, releasing a sigh. “What they must think of you, Mayor Barnes, gallivanting off at every spare moment to dally with an elderly recluse?”

“Elderly?” Enoch demanded. “I take offense. If you’re elderly, what does that make me?”

Herod grinned a little. “A mere summer peach, I assure you, still ripe on the vein.”

He stopped, horrified.

“Vine,” he said. He felt himself go pale. “Branch!”

Enoch laughed softly. Herod burned red. Oh, God, why hadn’t the groundskeeper just finished the job?

“Three degrees of Sigmund Freud, Beast?” Enoch purred. Herod barely refrained from stifling himself in his pillow.

“Three degrees doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replied, forcing a suavity he couldn’t possibly feel.

“Well, rest assured that I have every possible confidence in your strength and vitality,” Enoch teased. “After last night, I can have no doubt of it. But I worried that that little performance of yours in front of the policemen might have gone to your head.”

Herod dropped his voice into the more fragile tone he used around strangers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Barnes. This all has me entirely at sea, I’m afraid. I’m just a quiet man trying to live a quiet life, and I’ve been out of the world too long to really understand the terrible mischief people get up to.”

“You’re diabolical,” Enoch said admiringly. “Absolutely diabolical. To hear you talk like that, one would be sure a steamed carrot was too rich and spicy for your tastes, let along a man’s liver.”

Herod laughed softly, still out of practice. It hurt a bit.

“Well, my thinking is, lay it on with a trowel and see what sticks,” he said. “They’re suspicious of me, anyway. Might as well give them lots of things to suspect.”

“Very cunning,” Enoch purred. 

Herod shifted on his belly and swallowed. Goodness.

“Has Miss Clara been informed?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Enoch said. “First thing. She was ready to be scandalized when she saw me wearing the same shirt two days in a row.”

“What a filthy mind she has,” Herod hummed.

Enoch made a choked noise and Herod lifted an eyebrow.

“Go on,” Herod smirked.

“Well, I don’t want to tell tales on ladies...”

“Power through it,” Herod encouraged.

“But Miss Lorna is not the most spotless flower of dainty femininity, either. The things that come out of her mouth...”

“Enough, enough, please. I have no desire to hear what filthy little nothings she likes to say when I’m not around. She’s just downstairs and if you tell me unmentionable things, I’ll never be able to face her in the morning.”

“Oh! So you’ll let her sleep on the sofa, but not me? I’m deeply offended. Positively wounded.”

“Behave, Enoch,” Herod murmured.

“I’ll have to be impossibly, unreasonably chivalrous to you, soon, and let you see how you like it.”

Good Lord, the man thought he had been chivalrous! When he’d interrupted Herod taking such sinful pleasure in something so, so...disgusting! So perverse! Could he imagine Enoch grinding himself against the guest bed in Pottsfield, the day after Halloween?

He could. Oh, dear. That was not productive in the slightest.

“You’re more than welcome to try,” Herod croaked, wishing he could blame his injury for all the hoarseness in his tone. “Perhaps when I’m feeling a little more up to receiving such vigorous attentions.”

Herod winced and ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket again. Oh, very, very subtle. Why didn’t he simply say what he meant and just outright begged for his cock?

“Well now, that’s something to look forward to,” Enoch smiled. “But let me let you go. You could use the rest I so cruelly interrupted.”

“I’ll endeavor to put it to good use.”

“I hope it’s a good night, Beast. Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do for you between now and the morning.”

He could make a list.

“Bonne nuit, Enoch,” Herod replied. He waited until the man hung up before disconnecting on his end.

He’d just dropped his face into the pillow when he heard a soft scratching on the door. He got up, let Turtle in, and watched as the dog leapt up onto the bed as if he’d never even needed a fourth leg.

Herod pet his dog for a few seconds before he settled down with a sigh. He curled on his side and closed his eyes.

His fingers absent-mindedly stroked the edge of the tablet for a few long moments, until he caught them and banished the stupid device to the floor, obstinately rolling over and thinking fiercely about Tchaikovsky. 

***

“Good evening,” a man said.

Isolde looked up from the gazette and frowned. That was strange. She was supposed to be listening to Herod’s latest little trifle. Perhaps she’d clicked wrong?

She peered at her phone. No. The title was right--although _Phantasmagoria_? Really?

Perhaps the audio file was wrong. Perhaps something had gone hinky in the mixing.  It was an early publication, it was true. Published at only seven on Sunday morning? Haste made waste, silly boy.

“This is Herod Bethlehem, and I sincerely wish I could read you a bedtime story, but it is with regret that I inform you that such a thing is impossible.”

Isolde frowned severely and sat more upright. That wasn’t really her Beastie’s voice, was it? What had happened? Such things there were as head colds, to be sure, and even strep could twist a vocal cord from time to time, but this…?

“Last night I was attacked in my home,” Beast went on, “and while I do not wish to go into great detail, you can plainly hear that my throat was injured, although I hope only temporarily. I’m not sure when I will produce the next story, but I will keep you informed and you may rest assured that the work is still going on. I sincerely appreciate your patience and patronage. Thank you.”

Isolde stared at the screen for a moment, before reaching out and slapping the buzzer for the driver.

“Ives!” Isolde yelled. “Ives! Bring the car around immediately! Ives!”

***

“Enoch,” Miss Elizabelle called out, hurrying up to the mayor ambling down the church walk and clutching at his arm. “Tell me everything!”

“Yes!” the Widow Mathers cried, appearing from around Enoch’s other side. “What on earth happened?”

“Is he entirely all right?” Mr. Aspen asked, adjusting his glasses.

Enoch gave them all a very comforting smile, but it did little enough to settle Miss Elizabelle’s heart.

“Mr. Bethlehem is fine,” he said, “or will be fine. He’s had some damage done to his neck.  I take it you all heard his recording?”

“Oh, no,” the Widow Mathers said, “I can’t bear to listen to horror stories, they gives me such chills. But Mrs. Deen overheard Clark working on it and she called Mrs. Wolf, who called Mr. Howden, and you know how Mr. Howden can talk a man to death--”

“I heard it from the recording,” Mr. Aspen said. “And it doesn’t sound right at all.”

“Well, however you heard it, he’s alive and well and I’m just off to go visit him now.”

“But you were there, weren’t you, Enoch? For one of your dinners together,” Miss Elizabelle said. “What really happened?”

Enoch heaved a sigh, his expression becoming rather tired and sad. The poor man. He must be heartbroken!

“I...I don’t dare say anything more than what Mr. Bethlehem wants to say,” Enoch said. “I leave it in his hands.”

Oh, yes, that was very proper. Miss Elizabelle felt herself flush with shame and bit her lip, embarrassed by her invasive inquiry. Enoch, dear, observant Enoch, patted her hand and gave her a fond smile.

“I appreciate your concern very much,” he said. “And Beast--that is, Mr. Bethlehem will, too, I’m very sure.”

“Are you going to see him now?” the Widow Mathers asked.

“Is there anything we can do?” Mr. Aspen added. “People are talking about a collection, perhaps a care package.  Would you know anything that would please him?” 

Enoch’s smile became a broad grin.

“What an excellent notion,” he said warmly. “Let me think about it a little and we can start pulling something together. I think Beast should known that he has such loving friends thinking of him. I think that would bring him great joy in such a dark time.”

Mr. Aspen smiled a little. “Oh, least we could all do.”

“Let us know what we can do, Enoch, we’re all mad with worry,” said the Widow Mathers. Miss Elizabelle struggled not to roll her eyes.  The Widow Mathers had her eye fixed on Mr. Bethlehem ever since he had happened to be polite to her at Halloween. There was nothing so foolish as an old woman who was determined to mistake charm for flirtation. If he even knew she was alive, Mr. Bethlehem was most definitely an intellectual man, far too intellectual to be seduced by the Widow Mathers’ frippery, and more importantly his tastes were _classical_. It should’ve been the most obvious thing in the world.

“I certainly will. Thank you so much, everyone, I can’t wait to send all your fond wishes along.”

“The fondest,” Mr. Aspen confirmed. “We’ll wait for news with bated breath.”

“I’ll call you later tonight,” Enoch said, and gave them one more smile before walking down Main Street for home.

They stood about, the three of them, chatting a little, but the great gossip was never far from anyone’s mind.

“He’ll have to come to the fine Thankgsiving,” the Widow Mathers said quietly. “I’m sure Enoch will invite him, but we’ll have to draw up an invitation of our own.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mr. Aspen. “And I wonder what his Christmas traditions are. We could always use another really good voice at mass.”

“To say the least,” Miss Elizabelle agreed. “I think circulating the podcast isn’t a bad idea. Maybe a little publicity would be good for him.”

“Oh, very wise, yes. Get him a little recognition to help boost the later episodes.”

“Exactly.”

“Might I wonder...why do you think Enoch has such a strange nickname for him?” the Widow Mathers mused.  "'Beast' doesn't sound short for anything I can imagine..."

Miss Elizabelle felt a wicked little grin rise up on her face.  She leaned close to whisper, laughing. “I’m pretty sure it’s short for ‘Sexy’!"

“Oh dear,” murmured Mr. Aspen with an expression of profound innocence, as if they didn’t know all about him and Mr. Zeb.

“Really?” the Widow Mathers said, eyes wide. “Do you really think so? My goodness. Dear me.”

“Of course, I’m joking,” Miss Elizabelle said hastily.

“No, no, not at all,” the Widow Mathers said, sounding like she was beginning to like the idea. “I mean, obviously a wife and children would be preferable, but if he really must go his own way...I declare I’m glad that Enoch has hooked himself a doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Enoch reads is Arthur Rimbaud's [Adieu](http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Farewell.html). The line in particular translates to "I can see myself again, my skin corroded by dirt and disease, hair and armpits crawling with worms, and worms still larger crawling in my heart..."


	12. Pantry

Lorna knew she didn't necessarily come off as a very shy girl upon close acquaintance, and it was perfectly true that she had been coming out of her shell with great rapidity in the past few months, between Herod, and Beatrice, and the amusing colors Mr. Barnes turned when others proved not to be as oblivious to his passionate affections as the object of them was.

Even so, the fact was that she could still be very timid when she was startled.

The woman who shoved past her into Herod's house was just the kind of person to startle her. The woman was very glamorous, very short, and very, very old. Gemstones gleamed on her fingers and dangled from her ears. She was wearing a massive lynx coat and a small cloud of very nice perfume. Her dark eyes, shakily lined with dark kohl and rimmed with long eyelashes, were wide with manic fright. They burned into Lorna in a hard, bewildered stare.

She turned her attention away from Lorna and began yelling.

"Herod!" the woman shouted. "Herod, where are you?"

Herod was in the music room and stopped in mid-sonata at the sound of the woman's voice.

"Isolde?" he called. Creaked.

The woman shoved the music room door open and barreled in. "Herod! Oh my God, what happened?"

"Isolde," Herod said, rising from his piano bench. He sounded amused. "I haven't seen you this wild since Diana Vreeland died."

"You horrible, wretched boy!" Isolde cried, reaching out and touching his chest, patting it briskly. "Are you all right? I won't hug you, I just got the lynx cleaned, you know--but your voice! What happened, Beastie, oh, it's even more horrible in person!"

"Thank you, Isolde," Herod sighed, "I can always count on you for candor."

"Well, offer me a seat, for goodness' sake," Isolde demanded. She looked at Lorna. "And a cup of whatever he has in the way of coffee would be just the thing, dear girl, thank you."

Lorna bristled a little.

"Ma'am," she said, and began to head towards the kitchen.

"No, no, no," Herod crooned. "Isolde, this is Lorna, my particular friend. Lorna, Isolde, my most treasured cousin. Don't let her bully you. It's just her way of playing."

"I...didn't know you had any family living," Lorna whispered.

"If he had his way, you still wouldn't," Isolde groused.

"Let me just retrieve the coffee--"

"I'm not done with you!" Isolde said to Herod. "Don't you dare think you can turn me off the scent. Your voice! What happened!"

"I was hanged," Herod said.

"Ha...hanged?" Isolde went pale beneath her makeup and she sank into a chair. Herod reached out and took her hand in his own.

"Isolde?"

"Hanged!" Isolde repeated, covering her chest with her hand. She looked very small, suddenly, and very old.

"Yes," Herod said. "I'm afraid so."

"Oh...well," she said weakly, visibly composing herself. She squeezed his hand tightly. "Not for long enough, you little weasel."

Herod made a noise like a laugh and lifted her knuckles to the mouth of his mask.

"I'm fine," he said. "Perfectly fine.”

“You did better than your Cousin Arabella,” Isolde said. “She didn’t make it out of her turn to dance the jute jitterbug, poor thing. Eighteen is so young, but I suppose the bloom was well and truly off her petals before she was even executed, so at least we had her loveliness while it was there."

Herod hummed his amusement.  

"You’ll come and live with me, of course, if only so I can keep an eye on you," Isolde said.

“I’d sooner drink paint thinner,” Herod said sweetly.

“Beast!”

“Isolde!” Herod replied in precisely the same tone. “I’m staying in my house. Thank you for the offer, but my answer is no.”

“I am going to get you out of this nasty little hovel, one way or the other,” Isolde said firmly. “It’s gone to your brain. Deprivation has driven you insane. Next you’ll be telling me Warhol is a visionary.”

“Mm. Let me get you a cup of coffee."

"You know how I like it," Isolde said. Herod drifted towards the dining room.

Isolde spent a moment or two unruffling herself. She shifted to push her fur up closer around her jaws and throat and glanced at Lorna. Her lips quirked up in a wicked little smile.

"Apologies, child. You know how we old folks get."

Lorna smiled weakly and sank quietly back down on her caquetoire, putting her book in her lap. She wished Herod hadn't her alone with this woman.

"Are you artistic at all, dear?" Isolde asked.

"A little," Lorna said softly. "I like...to sculpt."

Isolde grinned. "Oh! How charming! You must let me see some of your work, my girl, I'm just mad about sculptors."

Lorna blushed pink, trying to imagine how she would ever show off her "sculptures" to such a person.

"Now, what is all this?" Isolde asked, rising again from her chair and sashaying over to the piano. She picked up the pile of music paper on the rack and began flicking through it.

"Why, Beast, you're never writing," she called.

"Never in life," came the response from the kitchen. "Your eyes deceive you."

Isolde grinned and began reading the papers.

"Oh, God," she moaned. She looked at Lorna. "He isn't."

Lorna blinked at her.

"An opera? About the Werewolf of Dole? Oh, my silly little...well, but what is this?" The old woman traced a finger along the lines of music, beginning to hum.

"It's really quite--" Lorna began.

Isolde shushed her and kept humming, bobbing her head a little.

"Bum-ba-dum-ba-doo-doo...dahhh," Isolde mumbled. "Oh. Hmm. Ta ta ta ta...dee dee dee dee bum bum bum..."

Herod returned from the kitchen with a cup on a saucer and immediately narrowed his eyes at his cousin. "Isolde!"

"What is this?" Isolde asked, gesturing to the sheaf of papers.

"My private composition," Herod said in a snappish tone, holding the cup of coffee out to her. "You'll have to provide your own Irish, I'm afraid. Put that down."

"No, darling, I most certainly won't," Isolde said, humming again. "Pa-papa-pa-pa, ta-ta-ta--God bless me, that's never a D sharp."

"It is," Herod grumbled, gently taking the papers away.

"Play me some," Isolde demanded. "I want to hear it."

"It's a work in progress," Herod mumbled.

"Play!"

Herod heaved a sigh and darted a glance at Lorna.

She gave him an encouraging smile. "It's very beautiful, Herod. You should play her some."

Herod shook his head and sat at his bench. "I can't sing it, right now."

"Well, no, certainly not," Isolde replied. "But play it."

Herod arranged his sheets of paper and struck a key. He cleared his throat, apparently more out of reflex than anything else, and began to play the slow, rising tones that built his overture.

Lorna settled back and smiled, pleased with how it had turned out. She had only been permitted to listen to it in pieces before, as Herod had been busy writing it.

It really was beautiful. Lorna didn’t consider herself particularly well versed--or versed, to be honest--in the musical arts, but Herod had a gift for creating atmosphere. It was dark music, quiet but urgent, a little anxious, like a nervous predator twitching at a sound. It throbbed hungrily, skating through hectic arpeggios and gliding down into deep lulls with quiet, careful steps, notes moving in a wary hunt or a dance whose patterns had been half-forgotten.

Isolde paced behind him, nodding her head and gesturing along with the melody, sweeping a hand back and forth. Her mouth parted in a smile that Lorna had to admit was very beautiful, and when Herod ended on the open third, the old woman laughed aloud.

"Sensational, my darling!" Isolde cried. "Oh, I always knew you were wasted on the stage!"

"Oh, really..." Herod said in a doubtful tone.

"And yes, that stupid Silent Night leitmotif is complete shit, darling, you must rework it, but all the rest!" Isolde put her foot on the cushion of the bergére and pulled up her skirt. She plucked a flask out of her garter and commenced to twisting it open. "It's very workable, darling, very workable indeed. Written for bass-baritone, you vain thing. I adore it! You must let me get my hands on it."

Herod's eyes did a thing that made it very clear to Lorna that he was smiling. "And the subject matter?"

"Oh, it's laughable, of course," Isolde said. She dosed her coffee with the contents of the flask and gracefully settled into her seat. "Infantile, really. But at least you're writing, aren't you? We can find you another, better werewolf to write about, if you really must have one. But I applaud your initiative, darling. You saw a need and filled it. There are hardly any really great operas about cannibalistic murderers, it’s true."

Lorna let out a high little shriek of a laugh before she could stop herself, and slapped both hands over her mouth. Isolde stared at her for a moment and hiked up an eyebrow.

"Nervous little thing, aren't you?" the old woman said.

Lorna flushed red and was spared the need of responding by the doorbell's chime. She leapt to her feet.

"Excuse me," she whispered. "I'll get it."

Isolde waved her off and Herod murmured, "Thank you, Lorna."

Lorna hurried towards the door and pressed her forehead against it for a few seconds, composing herself before she opened it with a smile. Mr. Barnes was waiting outside with a bag in his hand.

"Good morning," he said. Lorna gave him a relieved look.

"We have company," she said quietly, nodding towards the music. "I've never seen her before."

Mr. Barnes lifted his eyebrows and stepped inside. "How interesting."

Lorna locked the front door behind him and let him lead the way into the music room. As he walked in through the doorway, Lorna heard the women emit a delighted cry.

"Why, that's never little Enoch Barnes!"

Lorna felt another hysterical laugh climb up her throat and swallowed it down. Exactly how old was their friendship?

"...Isolde?"

"Who else, my little sweetbread? Come in and let me get a look at you!"

Mr. Barnes crossed the room and crossed the few steps toward the old woman, quickly recovering what Lorna considered to be his habitual charm. "Isolde, what a pleasure to see you again! How are you?"

"Oh, the years have been awfully sweet to you, haven't they?" Isolde crooned, as she offered her hand to Enoch. He took it and bowed over it, kissing her knuckles.

"I could say very much the same," Mr. Barnes murmured warmly. "You're a vision, Isolde. I'm so flattered that you remember me!"

"Mmmm, as if I could ever forget such a fine young stallion," Isolde sighed.

Mr. Barnes gave the old lady what in Lorna's estimation was a profoundly saucy, flirtatious grin, before turning his attention onto Herod. "How are you feeling, Beast?"

"You still use his nickname!" Isolde cried. "Oh, how fantastic. I told you it would stick, Beastie, didn't I?"

"Yes, and you were as right then as ever," Herod replied smoothly. "Good morning, Enoch. I'm fine, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear you sounding so much better already," Enoch said with a small smile. "You'll be back to your usual suede tones in no time, I'm sure."

Herod hummed and rose to his feet. "Can I pour you some coffee, Mayor Barnes?"

"Oh, no, but thank you. Just show me to the kitchen and I'll handle everything."

“Hmm? Is there something to be handled?” Isolde asked.

“Breakfast,” Mr. Barnes explained. “It’s our Sunday habit. Of course, we can’t record the next episode of _Phantasmagoria_ this week, but it's an established routine.  No need to disturb that...don’t you agree, Beast?”

“Mm,” Herod said. “You’re more than welcome to stay, Isolde, and of course you, too, Lorna.”

“Oh, yes, we'd be delighted,” Isolde smiled, answering for the two of them. “Go on, boys, go make us a little something yummy.”

Herod paused for a moment, but graciously nodded his head and led the way into the kitchen, drawing Mr. Barnes in his wake and leaving Lorna and Isolde alone once more.

Isolde lifted her eyebrows at Lorna.

“Forty five miles from here to Pottsfield, all for a little scrap of breakfast,” she said significantly.

Lorna blinked innocently at her.

Might as well maintain plausible deniability while she had it.

***

"Hey, Lorna?"

Lorna glanced up from the her pie and smiled gently at Wirt. "Yes?"

"About your, uh, aunt's friend," Wirt began hesitantly.

"The ghost!" Greg interjected. Lorna seemed to stifle a laugh.

"Yes? What about him?" the girl asked, carefully chopping the beef into small bits. She was making a mincemeat pie, and honestly Wirt didn't really think it sounded all that appetizing, but he had to admit that so far Lorna had never served them a bad dish.

"Is he...y'know. Okay?" Wirt asked. "Only I guess it seems like that house isn't really warm, and it's getting pretty cold."

"I'm sure he does just fine," Lorna said with a shrug. "More or less, anyway. He does need that chimney taken care of, though..."

"We can go over whenever," Wirt said with a shrug. "I'm pretty much free anytime."

"All we need are top hats!" Greg said. "And tap-dancing shoes. There's gotta be a chimney sweep store around somewhere."

Lorna smiled at them. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it. I think he's a little busy just now...you know, what with the great big kerfuffle a few days ago. But I bet that just as soon as December rolls around, he'll be happy to have you boys around."

Wirt nodded. "Okay. Just keep us posted."

"I certainly will. For now, how about you fetch down that cookbook? I could use some help making pumpkin cookies for Auntie Whispers' office."

"Can we make some elephant shaped ones?"

"Of course."

***

Laura woke her up.

Lorna raised her head, trembling, from her bucket.

Almost three weeks. She had been so, so good for more than two whole weeks! So good, knowing that Herod was being watched, so good, knowing that at the end of the month, she could sit down with Auntie Whispers and show her the lovely, glossy community college catalogue. She was so close to finishing the third week, so close...

But more than two weeks was time enough to eat through a refrigerator, and she had done it. There was a loathsome great turkey and a little tasteless beef waiting in the icebox, but Laura gnawed and roiled and demanded a body of her own, and Lorna had none to give her.

Herod's icebox was empty, too--they'd eaten the last real meat of the frozen boy scout Monday. It was now Wednesday night, and nothing was left to them but a thin soup. And even if Herod could kill, Lorna could not participate.

Lorna sniffled and reached for her water glass, rinsing her mouth and spitting in her bucket. She curled up in her bed, feeling vile, hot blood squish between her legs, and slowly reached up for her phone.

"Yeah?" said the sleepy voice on the other line.

"B-Beatrice," Lorna whimpered. "Are you asleep?"

"Yeah, dude, it's...oh my God. It's two a.m., Lorna, what the fuck?"

"I'm sorry," Lorna cried. "I'm sorry..."

"Whoa, hey, wait," Beatrice said. "What's wrong, sweetheart? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a bitch. It's just...well, two a.m."

"I'm sorry," Lorna mewled. "I'm just...not f-feeling well, and I thought maybe your voice..." She broke off in a muffled sob, gasping as Laura raked her insides.

"Oh, baby, no," Beatrice cooed. "Hang on. I'll be right over."

"No, no," Lorna begged, "please, no, I don't want you to see me like this."

"I'm coming over. Is your window unlocked? Don't get up. I'll be there soon."

"No, Beatrice, please, I can't--"

The line went dead.

Lorna tried to call back, to insist that Beatrice not come, but another spasm wracked through her and she could not focus well enough to dial. She lay in bed, crying quietly, trying not to smell her own vomit in the bucket nearby, trying not to feel the way her teeth ached.

After a very few minutes, she heard a scraping at the window and Beatrice tumbled in on a gust of cold air, dressed in her long coat.

Lorna curled up tighter and moaned, "You shouldn't be here!"

"Too bad," Beatrice said, closing the window behind her. She walked over to Lorna's bed and pulled at the covers. "Come on. Let me in."

Lorna tried to squeeze the covers tight, but Beatrice was stronger and could think straight, and soon was lying down on the bed beside her, reaching out for Lorna and holding her close.

Beatrice's fingers found the tie of her braid and unwound it, running her cold fingers through Lorna's hair. Lorna pressed her face into the pillow and bit it.

"Lorna, what's wrong?" Beatrice murmured. "What can I do?"

"Nothing," Lorna cried. "No one can do anything. You shouldn't have come, Beatrice! Couldn't you just talk to me over the phone?"

"No way, dude, I'm not leaving you alone like this. Come on, come here," Beatrice coaxed, pulling her closer. Lorna found herself wedged against Beatrice's body, her face tucked into Beatrice's neck as Beatrice pet her gently.

Oh. She smelled so, so good.

Lorna's mouth watered and she moaned at the twist of hunger that curdled her guts. So warm, her Beatrice, so pretty, and she smelled so very good. Lorna sniffed at her neck, adoring the fragrance of her blood, the sweetness of her soap, the smell of sleep still soft on her skin...

She kissed Beatrice's neck several times, nuzzling, ignoring the surprised "Lorna?" that burst from her lips. Beatrice. Pretty Beatrice, smiling Beatrice, warm, sweet, tasty Beatrice. Oh, Beatrice did taste good, Lorna knew that first hand, and she would taste so, so good right now.

Lorna's teeth were pressing against Beatrice's skin before she managed to jerk herself back, simultaneous with Beatrice's startled gasp.

She cried out in agony, covering her head with her hands and trying to curl herself into a ball. No! No, not Beatrice, never Beatrice! Laura couldn't have her! She was not Laura's, not Laura's, never, ever Laura's!

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, Beatrice, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--I didn't mean to, I wouldn't hurt you, I would never hurt you, I--"

"It's okay," Beatrice said, reaching out for her again. "It's muscle spasms, right? You didn't mean to. You didn't hurt me. Look, see? I'm fine."

Lorna managed to squint up. In the moonlight she could see a few pink marks on Beatrice's lovely neck--but she had done much worse than that to bruise Beatrice's neck before.

Lorna tried to breathe and shook like a leaf.

"I'm sorry," Lorna whimpered.

"Don't be," Beatrice said. She kissed Lorna's forehead. "Come here, baby. It's okay. I'm right here for you."

Lorna let Beatrice hug her, wedged against Beatrice's body. Beatrice pet her hair and murmured nonsense to her, and after a long time the tension unwound and Lorna went limp with a gasp, panting for breath and crying tears of relief.

She wrapped her hands around Beatrice and clung to her, pressing sticky, salty kisses against her chest.

"Thank you," Lorna mumbled. "Thank you, Beatrice. Thank you."

"Are you okay?" Beatrice asked. She shifted. Lorna gripped her tight, not ready to let her go. "Whoa, anaconda...I want you to drink some water."

"I will. I will. Just...give me a second?"

"Okay, sweetheart."

Lorna sighed and closed her eyes, feeling Beatrice's fingertips push her hair back over her ear.

"So that's your illness?" Beatrice asked.

Lorna nodded. "It gets worse at night, sometimes. Not every night. It's...just bad."

"When you say bad...are you talking about the pain, or...?"

"Oh, no," Lorna said, opening her eyes and looking at Beatrice's concerned, lovely face. "No, not that. I mean, it is painful. But it only happens because I'm wicked--"

Beatrice cupped Lorna's cheek and Lorna fell silent.

"You are the least wicked person I've ever met," Beatrice said softly, intensely. "I've never met anybody so sweet and kind as you. You're perfect, Lorna, and your aunt is so full of shit if she tells you you're wicked."

"But I am--"

"No. You're really, really not. You deserve so many good things, Lorna. More than I can give you. You deserve everything good, because you're good."

Lorna smiled and nuzzled towards Beatrice. "I'm trying to be good. Did I tell you? If I can be good for a month, Auntie Whispers will let me go to school."

"Oh, my God," Beatrice cried, sounding frustrated. "Lorna, you're a grown woman. You don't need her permission to go to school!"

"I know that," Lorna said, reaching up to pet Beatrice's hair. She loved the way Beatrice, fiery and righteously angry for her, still relaxed under her hands. "But I don't have the money for a class. Auntie Whispers would have to pay for it. That's why we have a deal. If I'm good for a whole month, she'll pay for a class for me."

"And what does that mean, huh?" Beatrice asked. "If you sweep the floor until it shines? Wash all the toilets with your toothbrush?"

Lorna laughed. "No, no, of course not. I just have to behave. You know. Be good."

Beatrice mashed her face into Lorna's pillow and groaned. Lorna petted her sweetheart's hair, concerned that perhaps she'd said the wrong thing.

"So it's a money thing?" Beatrice asked, turning her head to look at Lorna.

"Hm? Well. I suppose so? Kind of?" Lorna said hesitantly.

"I mean, you're not waiting for permission, right? Just money?"

"Yes. That's right," Lorna smiled. "And I only have to last a little more than a week. If I can go that long..."

If she could last that long, she would go to school. She'd be able to learn anything her heart desired from good teachers, and she could pick out any career in the world. She'd be out of the house for hours and hours at a time and begin building a resume. She'd go and get a real college degree and her whole world would change.

Delighted by the very thought of it, Lorna out-and-out grinned. Beatrice gave her a singularly warm look.

"Okay," Beatrice murmured. "I can work with that."

"Hm?"

"Nothing. Come on, kid. You're a mess. Let's take a shower."

***

Herod paused at the curb as he and Turtle stepped out for their walk one very cool Tuesday evening and found that the mailbox was stuffed full. He reached in and pulled out several notecards waiting for him, and had to smile when he saw how all of them had return addresses in Pottsfield.

And one was from Enoch, of all things. Herod tilted his head at it quizzically. Enoch could have him on the line whenever he wanted--wherefore came this formal missive, then? Herod gestured for Turtle to sit and ran his finger under the seal.

"Dear Beast," Herod murmured aloud. "You've served me so many excellent meals over the past months, so I insist that you give me the pleasure of returning the favor. Can I by any means tempt you to come to...Thanksgiving dinner?"

Oh. Herod turned his attention a little more fully onto the note. Pottsfield had a very fine Thanksgiving tradition, Enoch assured him in a rather long and anecdotal paragraph, and as he had no living family it was Enoch's particular joy to fill his home with dear friends on such a festive day. Would Herod give him the pleasure of his company for supper? He needn't bring anything but himself, and there would be plenty of friendly faces around the table, all eager to see him alive and well.

Herod swallowed. Thanksgiving. He'd completely forgotten. It was feast time, to be sure, but he was in no fit state to partake in it.

Things were looking bleak. Oh, he was fine enough, himself, to be sure.  His voice had come back, which was no mere thing.  He felt as if he could at least speak without shame, although the bruises on his neck were nowhere near as faded as he might wish.  But more prosaic matters obsessed his mind now, overwhelming his concerns of mere self-consciousness.

The Halloween leftovers hadn't lasted the week, so the leg had been a godsend. The roast Herod had made of it had done for a Friday supper, leftovers for himself and Lorna, and the biggest pot of soup he could make. He'd managed to dig an old freezer-burned slice of anonymous who-knew-what out of the icebox and turn it into a decently-passable ragu, worthy to be served for a Friday. Enoch hadn't seemed to dislike it, at least, and had been as wonderfully--and as aggravatingly--effusive in his praise of Herod's cooking as ever.

But Herod was reaching the end of his line. The soup would last through a few more days, maybe, but it was thin and a little bland, with winter taking any possibility of fresh vegetables.  It couldn't do as a main course. The coming Friday could not happen.

He was already devising excuses to keep Enoch away. Perhaps he could claim influenza? Lorna said there was something going around, and Herod knew he wasn't as lively as he had been even in October. He could certainly fake it.

But Thanksgiving...a Pottsfield Thanksgiving, no less, and what was more certain to be warm and bright and savory and satisfying?

No. He folded up the letter and pushed it back into its envelope. No, he could never make it. Stupid to even entertain the notion, really, when of course his hand tremors were coming back and he became so exhausted so suddenly, these days.

Even if he could get one of his old suits into such condition as would be appropriate for dinner, he couldn't possibly wear a mask to supper in the presence of guests. The party was bound to be nosy and although he believed that the population of Pottsfield was almost as friendly as it seemed, he found it difficult to imagine that anyone would be comfortable breaking bread with a leper, however long-cured. And he had no means of venturing out so far, either, with no groundskeeper to drive him.

Herod pushed all of the letters into the pockets of his coat and clicked his tongue at Turtle. They took their walk, spending almost two hours wandering the neighborhood before they turned back toward home.

When he returned, Herod settled himself on the sofa, draped in a blanket and wedged against Turtle, and consulted his tablet.

'I received your invitation,' he texted Enoch. 'Thank you for it.'

'Can I set a place for you, then?' Enoch wrote back. 'I can't promise there won't be a few corpses on display at the dining table, but we can devour at least one of them without eliciting a single raised eyebrow.'

Herod smiled to himself. It could never be. He started typing, but he was out of practice and Enoch was much faster.

'Miss Elizabelle is all in a flutter to see you again,' Enoch said. 'And I think it very likely that Parson Bleak will have me roasted on a spit if I can't lure you down for a little conversation.'

Herod deleted his reluctant declination to reply, 'I also received their notes.'

'Ah?'

'I haven't opened them all yet, but there must be six or seven. How do you suppose they got my address?'

'Couldn't begin to imagine. Shall I come get you around, say, three, on Thursday? I'd love to have you stay the night--nothing worse than trying to operate heavy machinery after consuming tryptophan--and Turtle is perfectly welcome to stay, as well.'

'I,' Herod typed, and stared at it for a few seconds.

He deleted it.

'My mask,' he wrote instead.

The little ellipsis rose and fell a few times before Enoch seemed to really get his ideas together. It took him a while to write the whole thing and Herod tried not to wait with baited breath.

'We can tell them absolutely anything you like. They don't need to know about the disease -- why, they don't have to know that you've worn it for years. Tell them the groundskeeper threw acid at you. Tell them it's religious.'

'For what religion?' Herod asked with a sardonic smile.

'Maybe you're a Tuareg.'

Herod rolled his eyes. 'No one will ever buy it.'

'I can spin this any way you want,' Enoch wrote him. 'It'd be my pleasure to come up with something simple and effective. And in any case, no one at dinner would be so ill-mannered as to ask you about it.'

'They will talk.'

'So we'll eclipse it with something juicier,' Enoch replied instantaneously. 'I won't push you, if you simply don't wish to come. I completely understand. But if you appear and if you're a fraction as charming as you were on Halloween, the only thing they'll remember is how enchanting they find you.'

Herod stared at that for a few minutes, fingers carding through Turtle's fur as the animal slept beside him.

'What's the dress code?' Herod asked.

***

Miss Clara’s head was swimming just a little from wine and laughter and she rather coarsely propped her elbow up on the table to support her head.

The evening had gone by beautifully. She’d had some terrible moments of shyness, of course, and had been living in dread of dinner ever since Enoch had quietly made his explanation.

Dr. Bethlehem, Enoch said, had suffered an accident a few years ago that left him with more than a little facial deformity and nerve damage.  The man was horribly, terribly sensitive about it, so much so that he wore a mask in his own home. He would be wearing a mask to Thanksgiving dinner and Enoch didn’t want anyone to be surprised.

Miss Clara's heart had ached in sympathy for the good doctor, but not more than her face had flushed with shame to recall her conduct on Halloween. Telling him she wanted to see him without his mask! Insisting that she have a face to put to Enoch's effusive gushing about him, as if any of the things Enoch had said about Dr. Bethlehem's charm or wit or talent or creative ability had anything to do with his physical appearance!

She’d assumed that the man was very handsome, but in thinking back on it she realized that Enoch had avoided as much as possible providing any physical description of Dr. Bethlehem. To be so discreet was a credit to Enoch's sensitivity and profound affection, to be sure--but now that she'd said such a stupid thing to Dr. Bethlehem about his face, well! Only God knew what the man must think Enoch had said about him.

When had she ever become so shallow and so unobservant? People didn’t tend stay so completely covered, not even on Halloween, unless they had a reason. She wasn't usually this indiscreet. She had to be more careful in the future.

Her eye had immediately fallen upon Dr. Bethlehem once she’d arrived, and how could it have been otherwise? If she hadn’t been struck by the man himself, she must’ve noticed the dog, and together they were even more strange-looking.

The dog was a huge, wiry-haired creature with a singularly ugly face and only three legs. Dr. Bethlehem doted on it, often keeping at least one hand upon its body, and it followed him everywhere. Dr. Bethlehem himself wore all black. His clothing so much more close-cut than his Halloween costume had been and it did much to reveal just what a slender man he was. The difference between him and Enoch couldn't possibly be more pronounced.  Dr. Bethlehem wore a golden mask across his eyes and a black veil across the rest of his face and head. Except for his eyes, which were almost unsettlingly pale, there wasn’t a scrap of his body to be seen.

Although there was no denying that Dr. Bethlehem cut a queer figure, the man seemed no less at ease and charming than he'd been on Halloween. He'd greeted her with a kiss on the hand and immediately asked about her brother's welfare with an earnest solicitude that delighted her heart. His voice had recovered from the sorry state she'd heard it in just a few weeks ago, and the warmth in his greeting did a lot to help her shake her shyness.

They'd all sat down to dinner with Enoch at the head of the table and Dr. Bethlehem at the other extremity, and the party in the center. The Widow Mathers was present, of course, along with Miss Elizabelle, Parson Bleak, Miss Lulilly, Commander Brown, Mr. Aspen, Dr. Summers, Lawyer Zeb -- in short, Pottsfield's gentry. Miss Clara didn't feel herself precisely elevated to be in such a company, since after all she'd known these people from birth and with the exception of the Widow's money and some small consideration for occupation, the gulf between fine Pottsfield and common Pottsfield consisted in nothing but the tendency to read the Arts and Leisure section. Still, it was nice.

Enoch had produced a princely spread this year. Miss Clara had seen the enormous turkey he'd purchased from Butcher Jefferson a few days before, and that would have been enough to feed an army even without the pot of mashed potatoes, the trays of green beans and beets, the yams and pearl onions and radishes, the small lake of gravy circulating in several boats, Miss Lulilly's three apple pies, Miss Clara's fig tart, Mr. Aspen's sauerkraut, and the several more-than-excellent wines from Parson Bleak's collection. They were never going to eat it all, but Miss Clara had already seen the primed and ready Tupperware in the kitchen, waiting to be sent home with guests, and to the church's late Thankgsiving supper, and to soup kitchens in the city.

Now, the evening was wearing on towards nine, and most of the party had gone. Miss Clara and Dr. Bethlehem were the only guests remaining, and Dr. Bethlehem was regaling Miss Clara with a very wicked story about a suspiciously nameless co-star he'd once performed with, while Enoch saw the Widow Mathers to her car.

"Well, then," Enoch said, as he came back in. "We're down to the family party, aren't we?"

"It appears so," Dr. Bethlehem said, wine glass disappearing beneath his veil. He leaned back in his chair. "A wonderful Thanksgiving, Enoch. You're very, very much to be commended. Everything was absolutely delicious."

"Beast, you're gushing," Enoch said, as he took a seat more near their end of the table. Miss Clara heard the tip-tap of the dog's feet and Enoch's hands disappeared beneath the table, petting.

"Nonsense. It cannot be so very shocking that I speak my approval when an evening has been perfect."

"I think he's really being earnest. I'm terrified," Enoch said to Miss Clara. "I've never seen a man better at damning with faint praise. I don't know what to do with this kind of effusion. Such raptures are almost unseemly, Beast."

"Oh, stop," Dr. Bethlehem said.

"No, just listen to you. I distinctly heard two 'very's. You're beside yourself. I'm going to blush."

"I don't mean to embarrass you with my admiration. I'm sure I could find a thing or two to criticize, if it would make you feel better," Dr. Bethlehem replied warmly.

"At least then I'd know what to do with myself--but here's something. I only just realized that we missed the most important part of the holiday," Enoch said, "and more fool I for letting the others leave without giving an answer. We must say what we're thankful for."

"Oh, definitely," Miss Clara nodded. She had another sip from her glass. "Is it very naughty to say that I'm thankful for Parson Bleak's wine cellar?"

Dr. Bethlehem caught up his cup and gently tapped it against hers. " _Moi aussi_ , my dear."

Miss Clara giggled. "But to be serious--"

"Oh, no..."

"To be serious, of course I'm grateful for my family and friends and health. It's been a very good year, I think, and I'm thankful for everything good in it."

"A charming sentiment," Dr. Bethlehem said. Miss Clara thought he was smiling.

"Oh, I think I see what you mean, Enoch," Miss Clara murmured. "Faint praise indeed."

Dr. Bethlehem threw up his hands.

"Well, I'm thankful for good friends and better food," Enoch said.  He glanced down at the animal under the table and smiled. "And good dogs."

They looked expectantly at Dr. Bethlehem.

He traced his wine glass with his fingertips, making a quiet, thoughtful noise.

"Rekindled friendships," Dr. Bethlehem said at last, and the beam on Enoch's face upon hearing these words could've lit the county for three weeks.

Well, who needed subtlety, when it was a family party and they were all a little deep in their cups.

"How sweet, Beast," Enoch teased.

"Honestly I don't know where I'd be today without your kindness, Enoch," Dr. Bethlehem replied in a tone just this side of saccharine. "You're such a humanitarian."

Enoch coughed.

Miss Clara smiled. "It's very true. I don't know anyone so willing to serve mankind as Enoch."

Enoch stared at her--yes, perhaps that was a little bawdy on her part--but Dr. Bethlehem burst into a wretched, wracking laugh that made her jump.

"Thank you, my dear child, that's precisely my meaning," Dr. Bethlehem giggled. He clinked his glass against her again. "And I must say that I think it goes both ways--what's a true philanthropist, after all, if they aren't as willing to be served as to serve?"

Really more tipsy than confused, Miss Clara took this praise with a radiant smile and soon afterward announced that she must make her way back home.

"Enoch," she said quietly as he saw her out to the porch, "Enoch, he's wonderful."

Enoch smiled at her.

"I agree," he murmured.

"You realize he'll have to come to absolutely everything, forever and anon," Miss Clara said. "No one will ever let him go, now that we've seen him twice and liked him so much each time. He'll drown in invitations."

Enoch gave her another of those huge, delighted grins.

"You've got no idea how happy I am to hear that," he said. "Shall I see you to your door...?"

"No, no," Miss Clara said. "Mind your guest."

"Thank you, Miss Clara. Good night, and happy Thanksgiving."

She popped up on her toes and hugged as much of him as she could. "Good night, Enoch."

She ventured down the street with a spring her her step. Now, if they could just find a nice fellow for her, there would be nothing more to want.

Maybe Dr. Bethlehem knew someone sweet.

***

"Hello, Auntie!"

Ms. Whispers was welcomed home one evening in early December by her niece, who was smiling and happy for the first time in many days. This was easily enough to make Ms. Whispers smile and be happy, so she greeted her charge with a warm hug.

"Hello, my dear. Did you have a good day?" Ms. Whispers asked, pouring herself a glass of water.

"Yes! Because, Auntie--you'll remember it's been a month," Lorna said.

Ms. Whispers blinked and glanced at the dry erase calendar in the kitchen. There was a little star drawn four weeks ago from the day's date, and Ms. Whispers broke into a huge smile.

"Oh, my Lorna!" she said, giving her niece another hug, tenderly petting her hair. "I'm so proud of you, my dear. You've been so strong."

"Thank you, Auntie," Lorna sighed, hugging her back. "It wasn't easy, but...I did it."

"Shall we go out to dinner, to celebrate?" Ms. Whispers asked. "I think it would be lovely, to spend an evening out together. Would you like that?"

Lorna gave her a brilliant smile. "Yes! I would!"

"How about Tavern in the Glade, dear? You like that place, don't you?"

Lorna nodded her head. "Yes! Let me just tidy up a little in here."

The girl turned to the dishes in the sink and Ms. Whispers sipped her water, smiling a little.

"What class would you like to take?" Ms. Whispers asked, trying to be supportive. She still had her reservations about the wisdom of Lorna going to school, but a deal was a deal, and it was very impressive that Lorna had managed to fight her urges for a month together. It was a relief to know she could do it.

"I think I'd like to...take a creative writing course," Lorna said, chewing on her lip. "I think that would be a good place to start, don't you think? Something to let me get used to school."

Ms. Whispers smiled. "I agree entirely, dear. Now. I don't want you being wicked while you're in school, do you understand?"

"Of course, Auntie!" Lorna exclaimed. "In school! Oh, Auntie, you can't think I'd really--"

"No, Lorna," Ms. Whispers said. "I mean while you're studying. Not for the whole duration of the class."

Lorna's face fell, dark circles suddenly more prominent beneath her eyes, her skin seeming much more sallow without her smile holding it in place.

"The classes are months long," she said flatly.

"I know."

Lorna looked away from her aunt and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.  "Herod can't hunt, Auntie."

"I know, Lorna."

"I'm so hungry," Lorna whispered.

Ms. Whispers swallowed. "You understand why I'm saying this, don't you, Lorna?"

"I can't do it!" Lorna screamed. "I can't! You don't understand what this feel like--I have to--I--!"

"You already did a whole month!" Ms. Whispers insisted. "You can control yourself, Lorna! You have to! I've let you do this for too long, but now you have the chance to stop!"

"I need it!" Lorna shouted. "I need it, and you won't let me have it! You used to let me hunt, before I met Herod! You used to let me!"

"It is wrong, Lorna," Ms. Whispers pushed. "You know it's wrong. And I won't let you go leave the house and act like a monster. If you want to mix in the world, you're going to have to act like a good person!"

Lorna emitted a strangled little shriek and dug her fingers into her forehead.

"You don't have to be as scrupulous as you were this month," Ms. Whispers said. "No people, Lorna. But...you're right, you used to be able to keep it to squirrels. You can hunt little things, my dear, and I'll still pay for your class. But you can't hurt people."

Lorna whimpered like an animal.

Ms. Whispers sighed and watched her niece struggle to find her composure.

It took a minute or two, but at last Lorna walked over to the kitchen table and sat down.

"How big?" she asked softly.

"Raccoon or smaller," Ms. Whispers said.

Lorna hissed, as if in pain, and hung her head.

Ms. Whispers approached her carefully and gently put a hand on her shoulder.

"I am so proud of you, dear, I really am," she said. "I know this is hard. But you've been doing so well, and I don't want to see you go back on all that hard work."

Lorna slowly reached up and covered her aunt's fingers with her own, heaving a sigh.

"Go on, my dear," Ms. Whispers said. "Go put on your coat."

Lorna nodded her head and walked into the hall. Ms. Whispers watched her go.

How long could this last?

***

Enoch was stuck in meetings until about nine o'clock at night on the first Thursday in December. Upon checking his phone, as he stepped through his door, he found that Beast had called him more than once. Curious, he called Beast's landline, but on the tenth ring he gave it up, wondering if perhaps Beast was already in bed. He called the tablet instead.

"Thank you," Beast sighed immediately upon picking up. He sounded tired and Enoch frowned as he removed his tie. "I'm...well, not really keen on the steps tonight."

"My pleasure," Enoch murmured. "Are you all right, Beast?"

"Yes, more or less. But I'm afraid I have to cancel tomorrow night."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

"Nothing. And...ah, next Friday doesn't look very feasible, either, I should say now. I'm sorry for the sudden notice but I...I'm afraid I simply can't host."

"Oh! Well!" Enoch said, pouring himself a glass of wine. "If it's an issue of hosting, you must know I'm happy to open my doors to you. It would only be right."

"Yes, thank you, I appreciate it, but that's not...that wouldn't change things."

"Is it very nosy of me to ask what this is about?"

"Yes," Beast said grimly.

"Well, I'm asking anyway. What's this about, Beast? You've got me a little worried."

Beast clicked his tongue in exasperation. "That's precisely what I was trying to avoid."

Enoch's shoulders tightened. "Oh, come now. Don't make me beg, Beast. What's wrong."

"Fine. If you won't spare me...I don't have anything to serve."

Enoch heaved a laughing breath. "Beast! You can't be serious. You've already fed me far better than anyone else has in my lifetime. Serve me a crust of bread, for heaven's sake. You've been spoiling me, anyway, and my tailor is about ready to hunt you down with a pitchfork for the letting out I've had him do."

"I say again, Enoch," Beast replied tightly, "I have nothing to serve you."

Wait.

"Beast," Enoch said slowly. "Am I to understand that you have nothing to eat?"

"That is what I am saying."

"Never mind for me. _You_ have nothing to eat?"

"That doesn't matter," Beast said dismissively. "My point is that I can't host, and I can't possibly get into a position to do so before tomorrow night. I've wracked my brains over it, and I'm sorry, but--"

"You have nothing to eat!" Enoch interjected.

"Oh, please, Enoch, don't be so dramatic. This isn't the first time I've--"

"Starved?" Enoch roared.

Beast was silent.

Enoch listened hard, certain that he was going to have some kind of significant cardiac event.

"Gone on a diet," Beast said tightly. “This is extremely embarrassing for me, Enoch, and I'd be so grateful if you didn't make it worse. I cannot host you tomorrow. Make other plans. That is the end of it."

"Absolutely not," Enoch said. "I'm coming over."

"I won't open the door."

"I'll break a window to get in."

"I'll sic Turtle on you."

"That didn't work the last time."

"I--I'll--" Beast made a noise and went silent.

"I'll be there soon, Beast," Enoch said, already reaching for his overcoat.

"Please, don't," Beast said softly. "I don't want...to be seen like this."

"You'll excuse me if I don’t regard your request with as much respect as I am wont," Enoch replied. "It pains me to disobey your orders and defy your wishes, but it would pain me much more to attend your funeral. How does steak sound?"

Beast made another little noise.

"Good. I'll be there soon." Enoch hung up, threw a few things from the refrigerator into a bag, pulled on his coat, and left the house almost without locking the door. He tore down the forty miles between Pottsfield and Woodlawn in an extremely reckless, interminable thirty minutes and was up Beast's steps and beating on his door in just a few more.

He was just about to start shouting about the traffic laws he'd broken to get there when Beast opened the door. Beast was still dressed in his street clothes, but Enoch took in the way his body curled in on itself and the way he leaned on the door, either too weak or too defeated to find the power to draw his body up and back in his usual graceful posture. Turtle stood beside him.

Enoch held out the bag. "Dinner."

"Unbelievable," Beast mumbled. He looked down at the dog and gestured loosely at Enoch with a hand that shook. “Get him.”

Turtle wagged and smiled.

Enoch walked in and watched Beast slowly close and lock the door, picking his way into the kitchen with Enoch at his heels. Beast reached out and leaned heavily on the kitchen island, evidently exhausted. Not “keen on steps," indeed.

"Sit," Enoch said.

Beast stared at him, eyes wide with offense at Enoch's tone.

"If I'm a good boy, will I get a bone?" he snapped, acid on his tongue.

Enoch mastered the urge to simply pick the man up--for all his height, he couldn't be 120 pounds, soaking wet--and deposit him in a chair.

"You're ridiculous," Enoch said gently. "Sit back, relax, and let me do this for you."

Beast gave him a hard stare but slowly shifted onto one of the island stools and sat.

Enoch didn't dare smile. He got a pan from one of the cabinets, put it on a high heat, and quickly threw a little oil on it. Turtle lingered around Enoch as he cooked, obviously curious. In short order a pair of steaks were sizzling on the stove and Enoch cooked them very rare, plating them as soon as he considered them safe to eat.

He put one plate in front of Beast and moved to sit beside him.

Beast touched his mask.

"I...forgot my veil upstairs," he said in a small tone.

Enoch lifted his eyebrows.

"The steps are..." Beast cut himself off, waving a hand. "Would you mind if I turned out the lights?"

"Not at all. Allow me."

Beast nodded and waited patiently while Enoch passed the room and flicked the light switch, plunging the room into pitch darkness. Disoriented and worried at every step that he’d trip over the dog, he slowly made his way back towards where he remembered the island to be.  He reached out and found Beast's arm under his hand.

"There," Beast said. "Here, I'll guide you."

Beast took his hand and put it on the backrest of the stool, and Enoch managed to find the rest of the way for himself.  He listened in the dark and almost jumped when he heard the rasp of a knife and Beast moaning low beside him.

"Excuse me," Beast said softly, sounding embarrassed. "It’s just...good, and I'm afraid I'm..."

"Hungry."

"Yes," Beast breathed. He sighed breathlessly and his knife rasped again. Enoch took up his own utensils to attack his dinner.

Wielding a knife and fork in the dark was difficult, but he could operate more or less by feel, and it was worth any inconvenience to hear the quiet noise of Beast chewing beside him. Presently he heard a different noise and smiled, trying not to think very much about the soft little sounds Beast made, teeth scraping and mouth sucking the meat off of the bone.

"Well, being a good boy pays off after all," Beast muttered sardonically, and Enoch laughed in the dark. "I'm sorry. I know you're being kind."

"A man has his pride, Beast, I understand that," Enoch said. "I know you don't like to expose any kind of weakness, not even to someone you trust. But it's never my intention to shame you. She may have been facetious, but Miss Clara was very right: I do delight in being of service, especially to you. I want to do it, if I am ever able. You're perfectly welcome to make use of me, however you'd like."

Beside him, Beast swallowed.

"I...appreciate that," he said quietly. "I didn't think it would get this far. I told you about Lorna's agreement with her aunt, of course..."

"You did."

"Her aunt extended the hunting ban," Beast explained. "We'd both thought that we could last the month on nearly nothing, and we did, but we hadn't anticipated that we would need to go beyond it. You should see her. The child's held together with threads and prayers."

Enoch frowned severely and hummed. "Cruel of the aunt."

"I think so, too," Beast said. "Lorna's beside herself. I understand she's laid traps for squirrels and things, just for something living to have, but of course they'd all begun to hibernate. I'd say I don't envy them, but at least they can manage to..."

Beast trailed off.  Enoch nudged him and Beast heaved a sigh.

"To buy a little meat," Beast admitted. "Pork, or beef, or what have you. I'm afraid my expenses are exhausted at least until next Friday."

"You don't have enough meat on your own bones to keep you alive that long," Enoch said. "What would you have done?"

"Eaten the mushrooms in the basement," Beast replied. "Winter makes it tricky, but I have some preserved things, a few old eggs...some yeast. I would've made a bread, and stretched the eggs across a few meals as pasta. But there's no real protein or much nutrient in that, and that would've had to be it. And it would've had to last a week."

Enoch shook his head. They were monetizing _Phantasmagoria_ , first thing.

"I don't want you thinking live like this, Enoch," Beast said suddenly.  "I don't. This is the worst it's ever been. I've had to cut back before, but never like this. Never quite so badly. And I...just in the past week, I was eating the Thanksgiving leftovers. I should've been fine. I mean, I couldn't have cooked anything for tomorrow night, but I shouldn't feel this...wretched."

Enoch put a hand on Beast's back.

"I'm sure it's all psychosomatic," Beast said. "It must be. It's just meat. But I've developed a...fixation, I suppose, and I suffer if I can't satisfy it. If I could only hunt..."

"Can I ask...how do you hunt?" Enoch inquired. "I've never really seen you do it."

"Well, it is a solitary activity," Beast murmured. "Hardly table talk."

"Even so. You don't leave the house during the day, but there must be a whole system in place to keep your larders stocked. Will you indulge my curiosity?"

"After that steak? Enoch, I'd indulge you in absolutely anything, tonight." Beast shifted again. "Let me put on the lights and we can sit somewhere more comfortable."

Enoch listened to him go and closed his eyes in the dark, squeezing them shut and peering out when light flooded the room again.

Beast stood by the wall, much more upright, mask in place. The bone of his steak had been picked cleaner than any Enoch had ever seen.

“Are you still hungry?” Enoch asked.

“Yes."

Enoch grinned sheepishly. “Ah, yes--apologies. That was obvious.”

“Mm.” Beast tilted his head. “I'm feeling better than a few minutes ago, but unless you pull a street urchin out of your pocket and give it over to me to butcher, I think I’ll be at least a little hungry for the foreseeable future.”

That didn’t please Enoch at all, but Beast turned away and started making some of his incredibly bad decaf and instructed Enoch to light a fire. Glad to have something to do, Enoch set about making the sitting room habitable and waited for Beast to appear.

Beast put a tray with the coffee carafe on the table and sat in his armchair. Turtle flumped down beside him.

"This is a little embarrassing,” Beast admitted, slowly crossing his legs and flicking imperceptible dust off of the knee of his trousers.  He was so lovely as he sat regally arranged in his chair, backlit by the fire, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his mask.  “I’m afraid you'll find our meals less toothsome, once you know the truth."

"Impossible," Enoch said firmly. He settled himself on the sofa, leaning back. "I am completely enthralled. You physically cannot tell me anything that will disgust me so much that I would not savor your cooking."

Beast tilted his head.

"I'm not sure if that means you applaud my cooking or disdain my imagination," he purred. "But I'll be gracious and say thank you."

Enoch smiled.

"I do not hunt often," Beast began. "Not if I can help it. After all, if I'm mindful, a single grown kill can at least three months, and usually more like four, since it's ordinarily just me and I don't eat meat with every meal. It would be ideal if I didn't have to hunt more than twice a year, but generally I manage to stay around three to four."

"I see."

"More for holidays, if I can splurge a little," Beast added with a little flick of his wrist.

"Oh, naturally," Enoch chuckled.

"Now. As you may have guessed, Lorna's needs are more...pressing than mine, but I chalk that up to the vigor of youth. She takes a great deal of pleasure in the killing and not much in the cleaning, but between the two of us we can hold steady at one every eight or nine weeks or so, not least of all because she's considerably more mobile and doesn't need to rely so much on her neighborhood to supply her needs. This city is not small."

"Thank goodness," Enoch smiled.

"When it's just me, and I can’t manage to lure anything in, I...go out. Without Turtle." Beast shifted in his seat, eyes turned from Enoch. “There are places in this city that hold people who aren't missed, when they go missing. Sometimes I wear a scarf and a priest's collar. It helps, you see."

"Father Bethlehem," Enoch crooned.

"As if I'd be simple enough to give such a name," Beast chided fondly. "No, but I am glad that you see the humor--I'm not dead to it, myself.”

“Thoroughly diverting.”

“Thank you,” Beast murmured. “It’s...not hard. Some are just drunk. Some are simple. Many are young or desperate. And of course it's easy to pick the drug addicts and the prostitutes out from the good ones. Every now and then you even find children, and of course those are very good, because usually they’re clean and so succulent…”

Beast’s voice dipped into his strange, satiny tones as he described his method. Enoch took a deep, slow breath, and tried not to move much.

"So, I get them home.  And I've already laid traps," Beast said. "The upstairs bedrooms have nooses primed with weights. I put trip wires around ankle height or so. And..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coil of something shiny.

"Is that a piano wire?" Enoch grinned.

"I'm afraid so. I don't use it often. It takes more strength than you'd think, but for little ones, I can usually manage." He put it away. "Let's see. Of course, if they get into the basement, there's always the well. I don't kill in more than a blow, unless I have to, and then I have a crowbar or two for the purpose. I used to have an axe but I've put it somewhere stupid..."

Enoch lifted an eyebrow. "You are pretty handy with a blunt object, I must say."

Beast wiggled his head a little, making a pleased hum. "You flatter me. Mind you, I vastly prefer it when they come to me. It's...well, a little dangerous, in its way, but not nearly so bad as having to go out and get."

"I can understand that."

"But for now, the issue is really that I can't know I'm not being watched," Beast said quietly. "And I can't know I’ll be able to leave the house and come back with someone, without attracting some kind of attention."

"Surely you could go by the woods," Enoch suggested.

"Surely. But who knows what surprises might be waiting for me at home? Can you imagine, getting someone nicely placed and being interrupted by one of the detectives? I should be so mortified."

Enoch grinned. "Well, let me be of service, then."

Beast looked at him. "...really."

"Oh, yes! I'll keep an eye on Turtle and mind the hearth, and dispense with any little interruptions until you get home."

"Would you?" Beast asked. "I...admit that would be an enormous help, to know there's someone trustworthy waiting here..."

Enoch waved a hand at him. "Of course! It'd be my pleasure. I have a few things I'd meant to work on tonight and I can certainly make my own fun until you return."

"Are you sure? I can't know when I'll be home, although I hope it won't be very late. I know you have work in the morning..."

"I'll call in sick, if it really comes to it. I'll never be able to rest easily until I know you have a little something for the weekend, anyway."

Beast rose to his feet in an elegant little sway. "Then...yes. I accept. Thank you, Enoch. Let me just get dressed."

Enoch smiled at him and watched Beast go. Turtle wandered over and hopped up onto the sofa beside Enoch, resting with his head in Enoch's lap, and Enoch petted the animal until Beast returned in his wide-brimmed black hat, sunglasses reflecting the light of the fire and the lamps. Across his mouth and his nose he wore his scarves and around his neck he wore a priest's collar, but Enoch could see hints of his hair.

"A lovely disguise," Enoch murmured.

Beast bowed, sweeping the hat off of his head before standing up and settling it again. "Now. I'll bring them home on the understanding that this is a home for the destitute. It's not a lie, goodness knows. I trust you would have no objection being introduced as Brother Grange?"

Enoch laughed. "None. I did think briefly about taking the cloth, so this is a way to see how the other half lives."

"At last you will know what it is to be in the first estate." Beast approached him and stroked his hand across Turtle's head. "All you must do is watch the house and let me work. No matter what I do, what I say, allow it to seem natural and normal. Feel free to correct me now and then, as you feel would add verisimilitude--but only on the subject of names, details, little things."

"Of course," Enoch said.

"I don't need to tell you this," Beast said, sounding a little embarrassed. "You're a politician, you know all this very well."

"I'm beginning to think you're calling me a very dirty word, when you reference my profession."

"My point is, you know how to deceive. I suppose I'm...just a little nervous."

Enoch smiled at him and reached out, rubbing Turtle's belly. The dog stretched under his hand and heaved a sigh.

"Hunger pangs, I'm sure,” Enoch said.

"Yes. That's all it is, certainly.” He rubbed the dog's ear. "I'm glad you're here with him. I don't like leaving him alone."

Enoch smiled. "Can I do anything to make the house ready for you, besides the tending fire and maybe making a little more coffee?"

"You might set the table for three," Beast said, standing up straight. "Not the china. Stoneware shall do. Steak knives, if you please."

"I'm on the case."

Enoch got the distinct impression that Beast was smiling at him. "À bientôt, Enoch."

"Ciao," Enoch grinned.

Beast made a little giggle and disappeared through the back door.

Enoch was alone in Beast’s house for almost two and a half hours. He retrieved his briefcase and took a look over the notes from the evening's meetings, trying to distract his mind. It was a futile effort, of course, because somewhere, Beast was prowling through alleyways and avenues, hunger gnawing inside him as he sought out any sign of life, and here, Enoch was imagining him in vivid, lingering detail.

What would it be like, to be his victim? Was Beast very charming to his dinner dates? He must be, for after all the whole process relied upon Beast being able to seduce someone back home, and that with neither face nor figure nor money to sweeten the pot. What sort of lucky, lucky creature would he find?

Enoch stroked the dog and drank the terrible coffee and tried not to think about it. He got up now and then, to look out the window of the music room. No lights gleamed in any of the cars on the street, but he tried to remember which ones had been there when he'd arrived.

At last the back door opened once again, and Enoch put on a welcoming, if tired, smile, and kept hands on Turtle. The dog’s tail thumped against the sofa when he spotted Beast.

"Brother Grange!" Beast said warmly. He had affected a Spanish accent and Enoch had the worst time suppressing his grin. So dramatic! "What are you doing, still up?"

"Just a little more work, I'm afraid, father. How was your evening?"

"Very well! Come in, my son, come in and get warm. What little warmth we have to offer is yours to share...Brother Grange, this is Mr. Hymann. Come in, do come in, you have nothing to fear here."

Mr. Hymann was a jumpy kind of creature who immediately turned a sullen, suspicious look on Enoch. He let Beast close the door behind him and lowered his shoulders a little at the sight of Turtle and Turtle’s missing leg, but still said, "You don't look like most priests I’ve seen."

"I subscribe to the pattern of Friar Tuck," Enoch said with a smile. "Can I pour you some coffee, Mr. Hymann?"

"I promised Mr. Hymann something a little more substantial, Grange," Beast said, heading for the kitchen. "It's cold in here--I'll make it warmer. You go sit down, Mr. Hymann."

Enoch stood and led Mr. Hymann into the dining room. Enoch sat the man down at the head of the table, pulling up a chair beside him. "Tell me about yourself, Hymann...what brings you to our door?"

Mr. Hymann's mouth twisted and he picked up the steak knife, fidgeting with it.

"The padre found me over by the bus stop on 34th Street. I guess...I need the meal," he said grimly.

"Well, we're happy to provide it," Beast said, coming in and rubbing his hands together. "The roast is in the microwave, and I--"

He looked at the table and picked up the knife at his setting. "Ah, no, no. These will never cut. Just a moment. I'll get the sharpening rod. Anything to drink, Mr. Hymann? I'm afraid we're a dry household, but I could make you some tea?"

"No," Mr. Hymann said. "Not for me."

Beast nodded and turned away again, heading for the kitchen.

"There's something wrong with him, isn't there?" Mr. Hymann muttered to Enoch.

"Hmm?"

"With his face. He hasn't taken his scarf off."

"Ah," Enoch said. "Yes. Disfigured. A terrible accident, years ago, but...you know, I think it's given him more of a sense of purpose, spiritually speaking."

Mr. Hymann grunted. "Can't be an easy life, if you stay up all hours giving food to strangers."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. We always seem to be able to make ends meet."

Mr. Hymann grunted, sounding a little more approving this time. "Yeah. That's what I do. I make ends meet."

"Here we are," Beast said merrily, coming in with the rod and busily sharpening the steak knife. "I see Brother Grange has got you talking!  He's good at that, isn't he?"

"My God-given gift," Enoch smirked sarcastically, and felt a little rush of glee as Mr. Hymann's own mouth twitched.

"He just puts people at ease. A glorious talent.  For my part, I have all the inclination, but none of the ability." He set the steak knife on the table with a soft 'clack'. "Oh. Grange, do you have a little something on your ear?"

Enoch's hand automatically rose to inspect and Mr. Hymann turned his head a little, curious.

With one hand Beast seized Mr. Hymann's hair in a vice grip, holding his head steady. The other hand stabbed the sharpening rod into his temple in a short, hard jerk. Even Enoch jumped and gasped, eyes wide, at the way Mr. Hymann's mouth dropped open in shock.

Beast released Mr. Hymann's hair and patted it down a little, petting. The man remained stock-still and unmoving, stunned like a fish.

"If you can still hear me," Beast said softly, as he drew off his left glove and cupped Mr. Hymann’s neck with his hand, "I want you to know how much I appreciate this."

Beast twisted the sharpening rod within Mr. Hymann's head and yanked it back out. Mr. Hymann fell face-forward, and Beast gently guided him to put his head down on his plate.

Beast carefully adjusted his grip on Mr. Hymann’s neck and slipped his fingertips down to press against Mr. Hymann's pulse point. He waited.

"There we are," he said at last, pleased. "We commend you to God, Mr. Hymann. "

He glanced up at Enoch.

"Are you all right?" Beast asked warily, as his fingers caressed the dead man's neck. "I recognize that this might've been a little...unsettling."

"I..." Enoch swallowed. He looked up from the corpse to Beast, feeling his heart hammer in his chest.  "I thought you were...

Beast tensed.  

"...very humane," Enoch said.  "All things considered."

Beast stared at him for a second and his shoulders shifted, apparently relieved.  His left hand fell away from the dead man and rose to press against his own chest.

"Thank you, Enoch," Beast said softly. "Thank you. I...that is, can I ask you to bring him into the kitchen? I’ll just go get my veil."

"Feeling up to the steps, now?" Enoch asked, smiling a little.

"More than," Beast said. "Much more than. I think I could manage almost anything, right now."

Enoch smiled and waited until Beast left the room before standing up and looking down at the corpse.

Enoch's innards roiled.

Oh, God. He swallowed hard. Oh, God, he'd just watched Beast kill a man. Before his very eyes, Beast had lured a human being, a living creature, into home and snuffed that life out with a ruthless, sudden act of monstrous cruelty.

And Beast was absolutely divine when he killed. Wild and alive and uninhibited. As graceful and terrifying as a rolling thunderstorm. So, so beautiful.

He wanted to watch Beast do it again. And again. And again.  Oh, God.

Enoch lifted up the late Mr. Hymann onto his shoulder. Oosh, he was ripe and none too sweet smelling. Enoch carried him into the kitchen and lay the body on the island. Enoch stood on the side of the counter with the stools and tried to think unsexy thoughts.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t take his eyes off the corpse, and the one ought-to-be unsexy thought that should have taken prominence--that is to say, the cold-blooded murder and the incipient cannibalism of the corpse--was, for him, more than a bit of an aphrodisiac.

Enoch reached out and fidgeted with Mr. Hymann's arrangement, tugging his clothing here and there. He was no beauty, Mr. Hymann, just a run-down, scruffy kind of fellow, with poor teeth and heavy circles under his still-staring eyes. Neither gashes nor gouges, neither sprays nor splatters. No dismemberment, no mutilation, no ritual, rite, or ripping. Not Enoch's usual type at all.

But Beast had touched him. Enoch ran a hand over Mr. Hymann's chest and down along one thigh.

Oh, yes. Beast had done him so well.

Would Beast maybe want to make something...lovely out of him?

Enoch bit back a soft moan. He desperately needed to pull himself together, or more accurately pull himself off, but he was fairly certain that he did not have the time to dart into the powder room and, well, get a grip.

"Enoch?"

Enoch jumped a little, head whipping around to spot Beast standing in the doorway of the kitchen in his mask and veil.

He ripped his hand away from Mr. Hymann. "I was just--!"

"Oh, no, no. Don't be embarrassed. I completely understand," Beast said softly. He walked over to the opposite side of the island, between the counter and the stove. "I know just how you feel."

"...ah? Do you?"

"Yes. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Not at all. I feel the same way, myself." Beast shrugged. "Or, well, I used to."

Enoch smiled quizzically, feeling sweat rise on his skin.

"You really do need to reach out and touch them," Beast said. He approached the table and matched word to deed, stripping off his right glove and laying his hand on Mr. Hymann's chest. He stroked once, and then began unbuttoning Mr. Hymann's shirt.

"It makes them real," Beast said. "That's so important. But it's perfectly all right to be nervous or unsettled. Why, you should've seen me after my first kill."

"Was it hard?" Enoch asked, mentally wincing as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"Yes, very hard," Beast said, peeling away Mr. Hymann's top. "A very dark memory. I killed an intruder in self-defense, you see."

"Oh, Beast--" Enoch said, concern momentarily rising above lust.

"With a cast iron frying pan," Beast added, and concern sank back down into the warm, churning sea. "Right about where I'm standing now. It was so sloppy, it really was. When I finally stopped swinging, his head was just this stinking, steaming spray all over the floor and cabinets. And all over me."

Enoch made a noise, desperately grateful that island between them was higher than his belt line. Beast seemed to interpret the noise as one of sympathy.

"I was sick immediately after," Beast said wryly, shaking his head. He produced a knife and began cutting through the second shirt and undershirt on Mr. Hymann's chest. "And that's why I'm very impressed with how well you're keeping it together."

Enoch cleared his throat.  "Thank you."

Beast waved a graceful hand.  "The thing was, I'd been 'on a diet' then, too. So there I am, leaning over the sink, leperous and emaciated and I've just expelled what little I'd had in my stomach. I'm  _so_ hungry. I make myself look down, and what is there to see but this big, strong, healthy Adonis lying headless on my floor.  And I get the strangest, most disgusting idea."

"Not disgusting," Enoch protested, voice rough.

"How kind.  Well, at that point I do the obvious thing, so of course I get a knife.  And I put a pan on a flame.” Beast nodded towards the stove. “Just so.”

Enoch glanced briefly at the stove, and yes, a pan was waiting, warm and ready.

"All the while, I'm telling myself that this is the most ridiculous, most revolting, most...oh, horrific thing I've ever done. And picture it: I’m an absolute fright, at this point, still in my nightclothes, drenched in gore, no mask, and my hair half-slept on, and I just…get down on the floor, and straddle the corpse's lap, with a knife in my hand.”

Enoch was never going to be able to stop picturing it.  The image alone was going to keep his nights warm for months.

“And of course I can’t back out now,” Beast said lightly. “Goodness knows I couldn't call the police, because who would believe a self-defense claim with that level of brutality? So..."

"Yes?"

"So I cut him," Beast said, shrugging elegantly. The knife appeared in his hand and he began to slice slowly through the skin and into the soft, flabby muscle on Mr. Hymann's chest. "I carved myself a nice, big slice of that young buck. But I was so new to it, and I was terrifically nervous. So I’m trying to cut, but I'm shaking like a leaf, and I just massacre the slice. Absolutely unplateable. It's embarrassing to think back on, really."

Enoch watched, breathless, as Beast cut three beautiful slices out of Mr. Hymann. Beast held them, red and wet in his hand.

"It was still warm. This is very similar. Here, touch it." Beast held out the meat to Enoch and Enoch pressed his fingertips against it. Oh, God. It was almost hot to the touch, and so slick...

"I skinned it, washed it, just like this…” Beast walked over to the sink and washed and skinned the fillets, before dusting them with salt and pepper.  He tossed them into the large pan Enoch had cooked the steaks on. They began to sizzle immediately.

"Then I ate him," Beast said with an elegant shrug. "Every bite. Every scrap. Sucked his bones clean, and then I ground those up and fed them to the flowers."

Enoch swallowed and swallowed again. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.

"You must have a tiny carbon footprint."

Beast let out a wracking bark of his strange laughter and turned to Enoch with joy-thinned eyes.

"Thank you, Enoch," Beast said. "Sincerely. This could not have happened tonight without you."

"It's my pleasure, Beast," Enoch said. "I'm just glad to know you'll be all right."

"I think I shall manage.  Suffice it to say, Mr. Barnes, it would my most ardent pleasure to have you for supper tomorrow," Beast quipped. He turned to the corpse and clicked his tongue.

Turtle came trotting in.

"There you are, sweet boy," Beast crooned. He dug in one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out a pair of bone shears. "Let's give you a little something for being so good. Good boys get fingers."

Enoch observed, charmed, and said, "I bet Miss Lorna could stand to receive a call right about now."

"Definitely," Beast agreed, snipping. "Would you be so kind?"

"Of course."

Enoch pulled out his phone and gave the girl a ring. The poor thing started to cry at the news, and was on the doorstep in her nightgown not a minute and a half later.

After being hugged almost lifeless and thoroughly sobbed on, Beast left Lorna alone with the corpse and the gentle edict to remember that they would have to be careful with it. He retired with Enoch and another plate for Lorna to the dining room, and presently the girl joined them, bright-eyed and smiling beautifully, her little hands clean and mouth just a little smeared with blood. The stoneware had been swapped for the china, and the only thing that was missing was a little bit of wine.

And in any event, Enoch was certain that the soft moan that escaped Beast upon first feeling Mr. Hymann's meat on his tongue was far, far more intoxicating.

***

Detective Tode scowled at the ceiling for the hundredth time that night and finally rolled out of bed. He was never going to get any rest. Might as well admit it.

He shoved himself into a pair of pants and grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the end table, ambling barefoot onto the outdoor stairwell outside his front door. He stood in the cold air and let it turn his breath to frosty mist, squinting out at the night.

He breathed in a plume of smoke and held it for a long while, before exhaling through his nose.

It just wasn't fuckin' right.

"I've lost my goddamn mind," Detective Tode grumbled.

Detective Tode dipped back into his apartment, pulled a plaid flannel shirt on, stepped into a pair of shoes, and grabbed his keys. He hopped into his sedan and drove for fifteen minutes through the dead city streets, eyes catching now and then on the shapes of freezing vagabonds and hunched, anonymous vagrants wandering in the dark.

He took a turn on Hawthorne and cruised quietly up to Edel Avenue, parking a ways away from number 6.

Detective Tode turned off his engine and sat in the lukewarm car, taking nips out of the flask of whiskey from his jean pocket.

The whole thing was a goddamn tragedy, start to finish.  How the mighty had fallen.  The old man was a noseless freak, now, and he'd sure as fuck committed a felony. Trial date was going to be set before all that much longer. Probably just after the New Year, at the latest.

Detective Tode sipped. It was a cautionary tale wrapped in a saga worthy of Oedipus, Detective Tode thought. Such a fuckin' shame.

Back in the day, the old man had been the shit. Detective Tode and Detective Frugg had heard about him, of course, after he brought in the Angel Maker.

Detective Tode shuddered a little to think of it. He had no real soft spot for kids, never had done. And Detective Frugg's pipsqueaks were nice enough, sort of, but even still he wasn't all that fond of brats. But the Angel Maker...the things she did to those kids...

Chilled the blood. Detective Tode had seen some sick shit. But that, in real life? It would've dropped him like a stone.

Not the old man, though. He'd done the case, although it took months and months, but he caught her alive and brought her in. It was career-making shit, no question.

Of course, what Detective Tode and Detective Frugg had loved was that the old man stayed in the precinct. He didn't have to flat-foot it around no more, not when he'd managed a case that high-profile. He could've written the true crime books and lived fat. But he stuck around, because he was doing good work, and right.

Then his daughter disappeared.

That was the thing about policing. You did your best to protect the whole fuckin' world, but the problem you never saw coming was how to protect what was right in front of you.

The old man had obsessed. His captain begged him to take a leave of absence, then a desk job, and finally had to boot him after he caught the old man using police equipment on what was by then a cold case. The old man disappeared off of everybody's radar, after all, and the next thing Detective Tode knew, he was a fuckin' gardener for a faggy, reclusive burn victim.

At least, Detective Tode thought it was burns.

The problem was, as far as Detective Tode was concerned, that plenty of people snapped and plenty of people lost themselves in their obsessions. He'd seen it done. It didn't have to be alcohol or drugs--sometimes people just turned over and let the dark waters close over them, let themselves be swallowed into the glutless depths of simple human despair.  The old man had floated on the surface of that hellish sea for a time, but at last something else, something much more malevolent, had risen out of those deeps to catch him.  

It had eaten him alive.

But the strange thing, the real hell of it, was that although the old man had crossed the line and lost all manner of his shit, Detective Tode knew in the root of his soul that the old man hadn't lost what had made him such a goddamn good cop. The old man had had a hunch of some kind, and it was rock solid. It wasn't a crazy man's hunch.  A lunatic's fixation.  The old man was right, at least to be suspicious, because something was happening here.

Something--even if it wasn't what the old man thought it was--wasn't right.

Detective Tode sat outside the house on Edel Avenue for hours. The lights were on in the sitting room, at least, and smoke still poured from the chimney. It made him frown, because it was long past one a.m., and he really would’ve thought Bethlehem was the kind to go to bed early.

It took another hour before the front door opened. The light on the porch never flicked on, but at last a figure appeared on the walk.

The mayor. Barnes.

So they were a dirty secret. That was...disgusting, really, but whatever.

Barnes got into his car and slowly began to drive away. Off to Pottsfield, definitely.

Detective Tode took another slug of the flask and watched until the lights in the house went out. He waited a little longer, but it seemed that the house was really down for the night.

Around two, he headed back to his apartment.

He’d be watching.

It just wasn’t fuckin’ right.

***

It took Beatrice almost two weeks of waffling to finally reestablish her connection.

She’d worked so long and so hard to get free, and at the time she swore she’d never go back, but…

Lorna. Her poor Lorna was miserable, heartbroken, even after her month had elapsed. Her Auntie Whispers had said she wasn’t good enough, Lorna had explained, and although she was willing to pay for Lorna’s first class, Lorna had to try harder if she wanted to stay in school.

Ms. Whispers was never going to stop playing these sick little power games with her niece, Beatrice knew. The only way out was to make some money.

One morning in December, Beatrice rode her skateboard down to the metro stop and hopped a train down to the other side of the city. She walked up to a grungy old apartment building on River Street and buzzed the door.

"Yes?" said the sticky sweet voice within.

Beatrice shuddered.

"It’s Bluebird," she grumbled.

"Oh, my, my," said the voice. "Welcome back."

Beatrice's shoulders tightened and she pushed through the front door. The apartment was on the third floor and she took the steps, squeezing her skateboard in her curled fists.

It was for Lorna. For Lorna.

The apartment door was unlocked, but Beatrice knew better than the keep it open long. She slipped inside and held her breath, trying not to breathe in the horrible, stale air.

"Well, Bluebird," said Miss Adelaide, looking up from her embroidery with a sickly smile. "What a nice surprise! I thought you'd left, never to return."

"I had," Beatrice grumbled.

"It was very dramatic of you, throwing that little bundle of money at me," Miss Adelaide said. "But you do have such a taste for elaborate gestures, don't you."

Beatrice said nothing, letting the old woman enjoy her cruel mirth.

"So, little child," Miss Adelaide said. "What brings you back here?"

"I need money for school," Beatrice replied.

"Oh, a worthy endeavor, to be sure. How much money do you need?"

"Two thousand dollars." The average Associate's degree demanded 18 credit hours. This would give Lorna no money for books--but those they could get cheaply. Beatrice knew people.

"Oh, a trifle, a mere pittance! I should be happy to oblige you, dear child, especially for such a noble cause. Of course, I will have to charge a little interest..."

"How much?"

"Nothing to speak of, really. I think fifty percent is perfectly fair, don't you?"

"What?" Beatrice cried. "That's fifteen percent more than I--"

"I charge a fifteen percent rudeness tax," Miss Adelaide snapped. "Unless you'd like me to charge sixty...?"

Beatrice held her tongue and scowled.

"I thought so," Miss Adelaide cooed. "Now then. Two thousand dollars. That's very manageable, but, oh! Just a moment, now, my memory is returning. Bless my heart, I thought there was to be happy news, wasn't there? Aren't you just about to graduate with that lovely degree my money bought you?"

"I earned the money back," Beatrice said coldly.

"Don't try to distract me--and don't you dare think you can lie to me. This money is never for you, is it, dear? Tell me. Who are you paying for?"

Beatrice clenched her jaws.

"You're right," Miss Adelaide said after a moment. "Sixty percent is perfectly doable--"

"My girlfriend," Beatrice said. "She wants to go to school."

"How charming!" Miss Adelaide said. "What a romantic gesture, Bluebird, I'm touched to my heart. Whatever is the girl's name?"

"Stay. Away. From her," Beatrice said. "Either lend me the money or don't."

Miss Adelaide smiled and waved a hand at Beatrice, dismissing her anger entirely. "Now, now, now. Don't make yourself antsy. I'll have the money for you in a few days. But you can pick up your assignment today. It’s in the cupboard by the door.”

"Two thousand dollars," Beatrice said.

"At fifty percent interest," Miss Adelaide confirmed. "And Bluebird? I'll need a little something more from you, this time."

Beatrice glared. "...what?"

"A new body," Miss Adelaide said. "Find someone suitable and do them the favor of introducing them to me. I need someone younger than you, if I'm going to keep improving the lives of others."

Beatrice scowled. “Fine.”

“We have a deal,” Miss Adelaide smiled. “Off you go, Bluebird. Make a little money for your sweetheart.”

Beatrice bristled, but stopped by the cupboard and dug out the small bag of white powder.

“I’ll be back in three days,” Beatrice said. “You’d better have my money then.”

“Make it four,” Miss Adelaide said dismissively.

“Four,” Beatrice snarled, and left.

Her bachelor’s degree had cost her way more. This would be okay. It'd be over in no time.

She hoped.


	13. Office

"You know my methods, m'boy," Quincy Endicott, Esquire, said to his employee. "Discipline, dignity, and absolute discretion. I needn't tell you your business!"

"Nothing more than a name, no."

"Right. Yes. The name. Ah, let me see here, I have it somewhere about--" Mr. Endicott dug around in the stack of files on his desk. "I called the Google--"

"Oh my God."

"And it reported nothing newer than 1996 for the alleged victim, which looks mighty odd to me! Perhaps you can ferret something out, but you needn't spend too very much time on him. Evidence of injury is against us, there. The witness is the thing, my boy, as you know, and this one's a political man. There must be some bit of muck you can turn up on him."

"If there is any, you can bet I'll find it."

"Excellent lad, topping. Simply topping. Stonking," Mr. Endicott blithered. He fetched out the file he wanted and leaned the whole stack with the practiced air of one who had lived most of his adult life with his significant documents canted at a 48-degree angle. He passed it over to his employee. "Take a look through that and you'll get the gist of it. Attempted murder in the first, and we can't fight it, goodness knows, because he came with the axe. But then he is a former police officer, and not a little one! Perhaps there's something we can do to make some kind of doubt emerge, and get him a reduced sentence on account of age and past services. We're thinking realistically, you see."

"Uh-huh."

"And of course--" Endicott's features twisted a little. "Ms. Grey wants life without parole! Might go for the death penalty, that vicious, bloodthirsty, ruthless, beautiful, silver-tongued maneater!"

The employee rolled his eyes.

"We can't let her do it, oh, no," Endicott mused. "We're the last defense of the common man against the tortures of the legal system. No two ways about that, goodness knows. We've got to give our client a wall to put to his back, so go out and smear that witness, will you?"

"Sure," the employee said. He passed the file back to Mr. Endicott and watched as he threw it onto a pile, leaves of paper flying.

The employee straightened his tie. "When's the date?"

"The what," Endicott asked. His eyes narrowed on the employee, glinting with suspicion. "What. What are you talking about, boy? What have you heard?"

"The court date," the employee clarified.

"Oh. Oh, yes! Yes, of course, that's obviously what you--yes, it's just after the New Year," Mr. Endicott replied. He let out an unconvincing little laugh. "Lots of champagne and kissing, I'm sure, and an attempted murder on the books. Excellent start! Not for the alleged victim, of course, but all the rest of us. Kissing and death! Capital. Tell me...you, ah, haven't anyone to kiss, have you, lad?"

The employee curled his lip a bit. "I hope you're not offering."

"What! Why, such impertinence--of course not. I'm a comfortable gentleman bachelor, well-established in noble isolation. No business whatsoever, thinking about absurd things like...like...illicit canoodling in interview rooms."

"Right."

"Right! Off you go!"

The employee left Mr. Endicott's office, glad just to be out.

Well. Maybe there would be something interesting to turn up. These small town mayors were always such fellows for dirty little secrets.

***

“Ms. Grey, are you entirely sure that’s necessary?” Herod asked, trying not to whine. “It’s...well, it’s a matter of serious social anxiety for me. And I don’t know how the jury will take to it being--”

“It’s imperative that you seem as open and honest as possible,” said Marguerite Grey, Esquire. Her voice had a pleasant, French-accented lilt that did very, very little to disguise the steel beneath her tone. “Mr. Endicott, that swaggering, pompous, hide-bound, dashing, debonair--ahem. That is, the defense attorney, Mr. Endicott, will be trying everything he can to discredit you and the witness. We can’t have you seem to be hiding anything.”

“I understand that, of course, but it seems a serious invasion of privacy to--”

“Mr. Bethlehem, let us think rationally, hmm? You’re going to be in public. Your face is not entitled to legal privacy in such a situation. Lose the mask.”

Herod gritted his teeth. “Fine. Must I take it off for the entire case?”

“Hm. I want to say yes, but maybe being on the stand will be enough. You said you’re disfigured?”

How wonderfully upfront she was, the vicious harpy. “Horribly so, yes.”

“Then that might help. We’ll play it by ear at first. It might get the jury on your side, if you’re concealed at first and then show a good reason for it, when you bare yourself to their scrutiny.”

Herod’s skin tried to crawl off his bones at the very thought of it. “...I understand.”

“Good. We’ll have a meeting or two before then, of course, to get you ready. When’s a good time?”

“I’m at your disposal, Ms. Grey.”

“All right. I’ll have my assistant set up something." He heard her chuckle. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Bethlehem.”

Oh, how cute.

“Hanukkah Sameach, Ms. Grey,” Herod snapped, and hung up the phone.

Damn it.

***

“Hey, Beatrice,” Wirt said, glancing around warily. It was early, early in the morning, still an hour before dawn, and Beatrice was pretty sure he didn't know these streets. “Who exactly are we here to meet?”

“Just an old friend,” Beatrice replied, as they walked down V Street. “Sometimes I do errands for her, but she kept talking about how this job is kinda big. I figured I’d bring you along and we can split whatever she pays us.”

“Y-Yeah. Okay. Sounds good.”

Beatrice nodded. Guys Wirt’s age could always used a little extra pocket change. Good thing he bought it.

They approached a grungy, apparently abandoned tenement building and Beatrice hit the buzzer. The door clicked open and she led Wirt up several flights of steps. He was breathing heavily and grumbling about how he’d seen a rat when they finally stopped outside one of the doors.

“Okay, so,” Beatrice said, and stopped. She took a deep breath. “Just follow my lead, and do what I say.”

“Okay,” Wirt said slowly. “What’s up?”

“She’s just weird, that’s all. Don’t worry about it,” Beatrice said.

She opened the door and grabbed Wirt, hauling him inside.

“Oh!” Adelaide called. “Close that door, Bluebird, you’re letting in a terrible draft!”

Beatrice slammed the door. “We’re here, Adelaide.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Adelaide snapped. She was sitting in her armchair under a heaped pile of scarves and sweaters.  She had a big cloth draped over her lap and an embroidery needle in one hand, and the other hand reached for a cane Beatrice had never seen.  It was topped with a golden handle that looked like a bird.

“Ooh, look what a handsome young buck you’ve brought me,” the old woman crooned. “He’s perfect, entirely perfect. Come here, boy, and let me get a good look at you.”

Beatrice’s hand tightened on Wirt, but Wirt took off his ski cap and ruffled his hair a little, pulling away from her. Beatrice chewed on the inside of her mouth, glaring at Adelaide. What was she doing?

Wirt approached the old woman in her chair.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Wirt. B-Beatrice didn’t say much about you...”

“Hmm? Come a little closer, dear, I’m old and I don’t hear well.”

“Wirt--” Beatrice said. She didn’t like Adelaide expression.

Wirt leaned closer. “I said, I’m Wirt, and Beatrice--”

Adelaide’s cane-wielding arm snapped out and brought the hard metal handle against Wirt’s temple. The boy jerked with the hit and collapsed to the ground.

“Jesus shit!” Beatrice cried, racing over to Wirt and checking him over. She almost cried when she felt him breathing. “What the fuck!”

“Oh, you have such a dirty mouth,” Adelaide groused. “Awful thing for a young woman. I can’t imagine what your young lady sees in someone so crass.”

“You knocked him out! What the fuck, Adelaide, why did you do that!”

“I can’t possibly put him where I want him while he’s awake,” Adelaide replied. “And neither can you, I truly think. Go and put him on the bed, through that door.”

“No! I’m taking him to the hospital!”

“I said, go and put him on the bed,” Adelaide said. “Who knows when he’ll wake up? I have the needle all ready.”

“Needle?” Beatrice demanded. She pulled Wirt onto her lap, pressing on the little bit of blood in his hair.

“I really should’ve done it with you, when you started working for me,” Adelaide said. “But then I couldn’t be sure what you’d do. Someone his age should be much easier to handle. A little heroin--”

“Oh, fuck no,” Beatrice shouted. “I’m not going to let you do this! I thought you only wanted someone to sell!”

“Of course I want someone to sell. He’ll be much easier to control, if he’s getting something, too. Now, do you want your money or not?”

“No! Go fuck yourself! I don’t want your money! We’re leaving!”

“Are you sure?” Adelaide cooed. “Only I’m sure Lorna would be so devastated, if she found out that her girlfriend was a gutter trash pusher.”

Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. “How--how do you--”

“You should really be more careful about tagging photos online, Bluebird,” Adelaide smiled. “Let’s just say I know Lorna’s family very, very well.”

“What do you have on her?” Beatrice hissed. “She hasn’t done anything!”

“Nothing you know of. But you, on the other hand...oh, I can’t imagine such a nice girl will want to spend much time at all with a dirty little thing like you. That is, if she finds out about you.” Adelaide grinned. “If.”

Beatrice clenched her jaws.

“So why don’t you pick him up and put him on the bed,” Adelaide said. “And we’ll wait for him to wake up, and afterwards you can take my money without any more troubles at all. In fact, I won’t even make you come back and pay of the rest. Call it a goodbye present for training your replacement.”

Beatrice stared down at Wirt. She didn’t have a choice. It was horrible, but she didn’t have a choice.

She got to her feet. “I'll get something to drag him. I’m not strong enough to carry him by myself.”

“Fine,” Adelaide said. She reached out and picked up her embroidery again. “Just don’t damage the goods. And make sure you tie him up tight.”

Beatrice grunted.

She headed for the kitchen and waited there for a second or two, before venturing back out into the living room.

She slipped behind Adelaide’s chair and wrapped her arms around the old woman’s neck.

“Bluebird! What--”

Beatrice gripped her tighter and Adelaide began to choke. She reached up and clawed at Beatrice with long, dirty fingernails, and Beatrice hissed as her skin split and bled beneath the onslaught.

She clenched her arms around Adelaide’s neck and held on as hard as she could. The woman jerked back and forth in the chair, thrashing and struggling, and Beatrice went with her, squeezing her limbs tighter. Beatrice held her breath, stomach turning with her proximity to Adelaide’s reek. Old sweat and decay wafted towards her in stinking gales and she closed her eyes, waiting.

The old woman went limp, but Beatrice held on, scared it would be a trick. At last, she dared a look at the thing in her arms and found that it was staring at her. She threw it away, stomach roiling, and scuttled back towards Wirt.

“Oh, God,” she choked. “Oh, no. Oh, God.”

Beatrice sat on the floor, breathing heavily and staring at what she’d done.

She glanced over and checked Wirt again. He was breathing, but soon he would be awake.

There was a way to fix this. The worst was over. Now she just had to clean up.

Beatrice nodded to herself. Okay.

Beatrice got to her feet and grabbed Adelaide’s sweater front. She dragged the old woman into the kitchen and left her on the linoleum. She raced back across the apartment, lit a cigarette in the bedroom ashtray, and dragged Wirt into the hallway.

She turned on all the burners on the gas stove and left them unlit.

She closed and locked the door behind them and slung Wirt’s arm over her shoulder, taking his weight and hurrying as fast as she could down the stairs.

On the way, Wirt stirred against her. “Whu-huh? Beatrice?”

“Hey,” Beatrice said, pulling him down the last staircase. “You okay? We should get you to the ER.”

“Huh?”

“Gotta help me walk, Wirt. Come on.”

Wirt staggered and Beatrice dragged him along. She hurried him through the empty pre-dawn streets and brought him to the park, three blocks away. They sat down on a bench and she checked his pupils her her phone flash light.

“Okay,” she said. “I think you’ll be all right. We don’t need an ambulance. We’ll take the subway to the ER and call your mom when we’re there.”

“Whuh happened?”

“You tripped, you dork. Clocked yourself real bad on Adelaide’s end table. I told her the job’s off, and we’ll connect later.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Beatrice.”

“Nah, dude. It is what it is.”

“Yeah. Okay. Ow. Uh, l-let’s go to the hospital.”

Beatrice smiled.

Three blocks away, an abandoned old tenement building exploded.

***

Herod did not recognize the man on his porch.

In some ways that was his own fault. For twenty years he’d refused to let himself be caught answering the front door in the middle of the day, but he’d fallen out of the habit of late. He should’ve ignored the bell.

“May I help you?” Herod asked slowly.

The man was a grey, middle-aged thing, with something very sly and and vicious about his nose and mouth. His nostrils were widely flared and his suit was of very poor quality. Herod was predisposed to dislike him.

“Mr. Bethlehem?” the man asked. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I’ll make this quick. I have a couple of questions to ask you. Do you have the time?”

“That depends entirely on precisely who you are,” Herod said coldly.

The man smiled, revealing a set of large, white teeth. “Call me Fred. I’m a seamus.”

Herod stepped back into the house and began to close the door. Fred put a foot in the doorjamb.

“Easy, Mr. Bethlehem, easy. I know you’re in the middle of a legal battle,” Fred said. “That’s not what I’m here about. I want to ask you some questions about a fella named Enoch Barnes. You know him?’

“You are not welcome on my property,” Herod said. “Leave immediately.”

“Just a few questions, Mr. Bethlehem! You two have dinner nice and regular, don’t you? Very cozy stuff. Bet you two are good old friends. Did you know him when he was a young man?”

Herod wondered if he could use the door to break the man’s foot. Fred pressed on the door to force it open, and Herod deeply regretted leaving Turtle in the backyard.

“Who are you working for?” Herod demanded.

"I’d love to tell you, but I’ve got a confidentiality agreement, you see. You knew Enoch Barnes in the nineties?”

“Barely. He was infatuated with Isolde Nymbostratus at the time. If you must petition anyone, petition her.” At least she could loose the hounds on him.

“Isolde,” Fred said with a smile. “Thanks. Good tip. You remember what he was like? Any special interests? Weaknesses?” Fred lifted his eyebrows. “Lovers?”

“I believe I exchanged an average of five words a week with him, back then. I’ve finished talking to you, Mister…”

“Fred.”

“You’re trespassing. Go away.”

Fred held up both hands and retrieved his foot from the jamb. Herod shut the door in his face and locked it, before peering through the watch hole at the way the man grinned to himself and walked down the steps.

Hm.

***

She wouldn’t admit it, not on pain of death, but Lorna wasn’t entirely sure that she liked school.

Oh, it was all right, certainly. The textbook itself was very interesting, and some of the people in her class were awfully nice. The assignments left a little to be desired, certainly, but she was very adept at making her own fun where little fun otherwise appeared present, and she could make her work perfectly tolerable with really very little effort at all.

But the professor just didn’t seem pleased to be there, not at all. She knew it was a little much to ask, that everyone enjoy their job, but even so it seemed to her to make precious little sense, to persist in an occupation that only made one sigh and grumble in such a completely dissatisfied kind of way.

But she wouldn’t complain. Never that! She missed having as much time to spend with Herod and the boys and of course Beatrice, but it was nice to have some work to do during the day. Perhaps a mathematics course would be more exciting. Or science!

Beatrice was a scholar. Maybe Lorna could pick her brains for ideas.

Something tapped on the window and Lorna looked up from sweeping the kitchen floor to smile at Beatrice, Wirt, and Greg standing outside. She opened the casements and leaned out to greet them, and soon found herself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic Beatrice kiss.

“Oh,” Wirt said, somewhere nearby. Lorna wasn’t sure exactly where. Her eyes were fluttering closed.

“Hello, darling,” Lorna said, when her mouth was again at liberty for her own use. “Goodness.”

“Hey babe,” Beatrice said. “I’m glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too, my turtles,” Lorna said, looking at Wirt and Greg as well. “But I’m sorry, dears. I can’t invite you in right now. Auntie Whispers has taken to her bed.”

“Yeah?” Beatrice asked. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see you. Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, it will be. We’re just in mourning, I’m afraid.”

Everyone frowned.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” Wirt said. The poor child had a bandage wrapped around his head. “What happened?”

“Auntie’s sister died. Adelaide.”

Beatrice turned pale and swayed where she stood. Worried, Lorna reached out her hands and caught her paramour’s shoulders. “Wha…?”

“Are you sick, Beatrice?” Lorna asked, brushing her fingers across Beatrice’s forehead and combing back her hair. “You shouldn’t be out in this cold.”

“Oh, jeez,” Wirt said, looking ashen as well. “Did she live on V Street?”

“...yes. How did you know that?” Lorna asked.

“Adelaide…?” Beatrice croaked. Lorna worried over her for a minute, petting her hair.

“Yes, but that isn’t really important. We should get you home and into bed.”

“No,” Beatrice said, taking a deep breath. “Just. Uh.”

“We were there!” Wirt squeaked. “We met her just a day ago!”

“What?” Lorna asked. “What do you mean, you were there?”

“Beatrice and I! Really early in the morning, because Miss Adelaide had a job she wanted us to do.”

Lorna’s eyes widened and she stared at Beatrice. “You worked for my aunt Adelaide…?”

Beatrice looked like she would be sick. “Uh--um--”

"Was that the big explosion?" Wirt demanded.  

"Er--yes, I think that's what the fire department said..."

“The gas must have already been on when we were there! I think that’s why I fell--I hit my head on an end table,” Wirt explained, gesturing sheepishly to the wrap around his head.

Lorna looked very carefully at Beatrice. Her sweet beloved looked so pale and hunted and scared.

What did she know about all this?

“So it really was a gas explosion,” Lorna said softly. “I wish I could say I was surprised. She lived in the most wretched, squalid little place, and I suppose it was structurally unsound, at the last.”

“Yeah, it was...pretty gross,” Wirt admitted.

“I’m so sorry you had to work for her, darling,” Lorna said to Beatrice. “Oh, she was the worst, most horrible person I’ve ever known.”

Beatrice jerked and looked at her with a stunned expression. “What…?”

“Yes. I’m so, so sorry that you ever knew her,” Lorna said. “Neither Auntie Whispers nor I are as heartbroken as we ought to be. Aunt Adelaide couldn’t be trusted, not with anything. The minute she ever found out anything about anyone, she used it against them.”

“Really?” Wirt asked. “That’s awful.”

Beatrice was watching her with huge, liquid eyes.

“I’m just lucky my mother named Auntie Whispers as my godmother, really, because it could’ve gone very badly for me,” Lorna went on. “Aunt Adelaide liked sticking pins in everyone, especially my poor Auntie Whispers. Holiday dinners were the worst! Of course I’m not happy she’s dead, and Auntie will probably cry a little for the form of it, but...she really wasn’t a good person.”

Beatrice swallowed.

“I think, all things considered, it’s not a bad thing, that she’s gone,” Lorna said with a sad little moue.

Beatrice stared at her for a few long seconds and then reached out and grabbed the back of her head.  Beatrice pulled her to lean out of the window and planted a desperate, needy kiss on her lips. Lorna squeaked and held on, rather excited by her sweetheart’s passion.

“Go home, Wirt,” Beatrice growled against Lorna’s mouth, when she broke the kiss at last. “Take Greg with you.”

“But!”

“Do go home, Wirt,” Lorna echoed, hands stroking her Beatrice's hair. “For goodness’ sake, go home.”

Wirt grumbled and grabbed Greg’s hand--“But Wirt, what was the job supposed to be?”--and trundled away.

Beatrice kissed her again and again. It ached Lorna’s back, to lean out the window like this, and she wanted to be underneath her sweetheart, if they were going to do much more of this.  She tingled all over and she smiled against her girlfriend's lips.

“This is really inappropriate,” Beatrice panted, “and I know your aunt just died, but can we sneak off somewhere so I can get on my knees for you?”

“Oh, Beatrice,” Lorna breathed, flushing red.

“I just kinda gotta give you a lot of orgasms,” Beatrice said. “For a couple of hours. Right now. Can we do that? Please?”

Lorna bit her lip. She pulled off her apron.

“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Lorna replied. “Let me get my coat.”

Lorna grinned widely to herself as she closed the window and hurried towards the front door. So it was a little bit of death that did it for her sweet Beatrice.

That could be really, really useful information.

***

Lorna visibly fidgeted.

Herod gave her a long look from his perch on the ugly floral-patterned sofa, comfortably ensconced in a climate-controlled living room on Hawthorne Street. “I can always leave, if this makes you uncomfortable. I'll find somewhere else to do this.”

“No,” Lorna said decisively. “No, you’re very right to do this here, and I’m happy to host you.”

“You look like you’re going to try and leap out of your skin.”

“I always thought reporters were very bad things,” Lorna mumbled. “Policemen, too. Um. Social workers. Busybodies.”

“That’s only natural, my dear.”

“Overprotective mothers. Plucky babysitters. Spirit mediums.”

“Hmm.”

“They can sense the vengeful dead,” Lorna whispered.

“Ah, yes,” Herod nodded. “Sage concerns, all.”

“Do you know this person?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s some little friend of Isolde’s,” Herod said, brushing an imaginary bit of lint off the knee of his trouser leg. “She says she’ll have my door egged if I don’t mention the opera, so pinch me if I let the interviewer out the door without saying something.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Under the right arm should work. I have some functioning nerve endings there.”

Lorna laughed and shifted her weight. “I’m going to go make tea.”

“You’ve made two pots, Lorna,” Herod said gently. “I think more is the last thing you need.”

“Oh. Yes. Um. I guess you’re right. Maybe I’ll--”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Lorna yipped.

Herod smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Show time.

***

It was late in the afternoon on a cold December day, and Detective Frugg was still at the precinct, taking his turn with the paperwork. Detective Tode, miles away, sat down and stared at the old man through the pane of glass.

The old man stared right back, his noseless face a hard, mulish mask.

"When's your court date?" Detective Tode asked.

The old man's eyes narrowed, just a little, before settling back into his unmoving, stubborn expression.

Detective Tode shrugged and nodded to himself. "It's coming up, I guess. They'll want to move along on this. You're not what they call a high-stakes criminal, I'm sorry to say."

Detective Tode reached into his breast pocket and took out his pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and lit it.

"Can't do that in here, sir," said the guard at the door.

Detective Tode turned and looked at the guard. He stared at him for a long time, before turning his attention back towards the old man and breathing out a puff of smoke.

He could've sworn the old man had just a little bit of a smile on his craggy face.

"See, the thing I'm thinking," Detective Tode said, leaning back in his seat, "is that this just doesn't make a whole lot of sense. You're an ex-cop. You had to know what was up. So unless you just went balls-out crazy..."

Detective Tode spread his hands. The old man squinted a little at him.

"You had a reason. Maybe you just hate the guy. Fuck if I know," Detective Tode said. "I mean, you were raving some shit about cannibals when we got you, but I figured that was because you'd just had a pretty fucking severe rhinoplasty."

The old man glared.

Detective Tode sucked on his cigarette. "What's really going on in that house? No record. Just you and me."

"I want to see my lawyer," the old man said. His words were a little mangled. Hadn't gotten used to talking without a nose, Detective Tode guessed.

"All right," Detective Tode said. "We'll call him. But I'm not asking for a confession or any kind of legal shit. I just want to know: what was happening in that house?"

The old man's jaw clenched.

"I told you," the old man said. "He kills people. And he eats them."

"He doesn't ever leave the house," Detective Tode argued. "Nobody visits but the girl and the mayor. Where would he get them?"

The old man shrugged. "He kills people and he eats them. He's going to kill more people. He's killed since I was arrested."

Something in the old man's nonchalance--the concrete and unshakable conviction that such a thing had already happened--sent an icy little chill up Detective Tode's spine. The old man's certainty wasn't fire and brimstone or even a desperate plea to be believed. There was batshit crazy, raving accusation, and then there was a hard, simple statement of fact.

"Someone had to stop him," the old man went on. "He ate children. It was all cleaned up by the time you got there, but he had a table in the basement spread with bones and body parts. He was drinking a cup of blood."

"It sounds like something out of a comic book," Detective Tode said.

"You think I don't realize that?" the old man snapped. "Of course it does. That's what he's counting on. It's all deliberate--he wants to make sure it sounds so ridiculous that you won't believe it when you hear it. It's all over the top. A ghost story. You think that's because there's nothing going on? It's a performance and you're eating it up."

Detective Tode thought about that. Sure, the reclusive old freak routine was kind of hammy, and the mask was fuckin' ridiculous, but it was strange because Bethlehem was flamboyant.  That was all.

Wasn't it?

"Think about it, moron," the old man pushed. "He's playing with you. You suspect him--how couldn't you? And what he gives you is six different reasons to be suspicious, so you never come close to what he's really doing. He doesn't have to make you doubt yourself. You'll do the doubting for him."

Detective Tode hiked up an eyebrow.

"You got a real axe to grind, don't you?" Detective Tode said.

The old man scowled. "I'm done talking. Get me my lawyer, or send me back to my cell."

"Yeah, all right," Detective Tode said. He looked at the old man for a second or two. "Before we split ways...how does the mayor fit into all this?"

The old man's expression went fiercer and harder than it had, even while talking about Bethlehem.

"You can't trust him," the old man said. "He's the same as Bethlehem."

"Oh, really?" Detective Tode said.

The old man stared him down.

"All right," Detective Tode said to the guard. He rose to his feet. "We're done. Thanks for your time."

"You're going to need to stop thinking like a person, if you're going to see this," the old man said. Detective Tode looked down at him with a skeptical expression.

"Oh? What should I be thinking like?" Detective Tode asked.

"I don’t know. Not a person," the old man said. "They aren't people. They're things. I've never seen anything like it."

"I don't believe in monsters."

"Then either you haven't seen a single fucking thing your whole career long, or you're a shit cop," the old man said. "And either way, you're not listening to me. I'm not sure what they are, but you can't assume they're going to behave like people do. They're just wearing people skins, wearing costumes and reading lines to you. They're getting away with it, and if you take your eyes off of them for a second, they're going to sink back into the dark again, and if you're lucky, every now and then you'll find a bone they picked clean."

Detective Tode wanted more than anything to want to laugh. It would've been a comfort if he could believe that the old man was just insane, just fanatical. The language made it sound like it, and with a little whiskey and some stern repetition, he could probably make himself believe that grief and hate had finally driven the old man insane.

But the old man was just advising him. The old man didn't care if he convinced Detective Tode or not. He was just explaining the facts, man to man. Cop to cop.

"They aren't human," the old man said simply.

“You’re crazy,” Detective Tode said, wanting to believe it.

The old man gave him a sneer and looked at the guard. “I’m done here.”

The guard looked at Detective Tode.

“Yeah,” Detective Tode said. An icy hand was wrapped around his heart, and it was beginning to squeeze. “We’re done.”

***

_“The opera is a pet-project,” Mr. Bethlehem demurs. “I’ve been working on it on and off for a decade, but I think it’s beginning to come together into a cohesive draft. I may perform bits of it for the podcast, if that’s something people will enjoy. It’s called the Werewolf of Dole and it follows a horrible true story in the backwoods of France.”_

_“So you’re always thinking about horror?”_

_“No, I wouldn’t say that. I am usually thinking about music, or literature, or gardening, or my family and friends. Rather, let me say I am sensitive to horror. I think this is true of many writers, as well as other artists, but I scare easily because I am sensitive to fear. I see its possibility in the mundane, in kitchens, and hallways, and familiar avenues, and the smiles on people’s faces. I find myself in the position of living with it on an everyday basis. I enjoy digging deep into it and looking for the roots of it. Those roots are found in love, by the way. Horror only exists if we love.”_

_“Doesn't that seem like a contradiction in terms?”_

_“Oh, no. No, I think not. I love the art for its qualities as art, and many others do too, but it’s meaningless if you can’t ground a personal connection in it. We tell human stories and study human minds--we’re just mucking around in the darker and more dismal parts, mostly because it’s fun. Blood is so romantic, don’t you agree? And flowers are so grim and sad. I like getting to work with both. I feel like I have a genuine human experience, that way.”_

_“So where can we hear about these genuine human experiences?”_

_“Obviously, there is the podcast…”_

Enoch skimmed the interview transcript on his screen and took his reading glasses off. Sneaky, sneaky Beast, pushing traffic towards _Phantasmagoria_! The Paypal donate button couldn’t stay a secret from him for much longer. They’d already crested a hundred dollars and that boded very well indeed. Enoch was hoping to offer Beast something nice and juicy to alleviate the artistically tempered arguing that would no doubt follow the news that Enoch had monetized Beast’s work.

Honesty was going to be his watchword, now. Enoch had made up his mind. The year was almost over and that meant that a decent consideration for reigniting their acquaintanceship and kindling it into a roaring conflagration had been weathered. That little tete-a-tete in the dining room had only sharpened Enoch's appetite, and by now he'd been trapped with a ravenous, unsatisfied hunger for nigh on four months.

It was too much to bear. He couldn't justify any more absurd dithering, now that they finally knew each other's minds so well--or he flattered himself to believe they knew each other's minds. He thought it likely, at least. One would never let someone else observe them seducing a vagrant home and ruthlessly murdering and butchering them, if they weren't at least fond of their observer.

Beast most certainly liked him and trusted him, and Enoch felt it was decent odds that Beast would find his passion flattering and might be willing to let Enoch press his attentions. It was worth the shot. He could at least broach the subject, confident that he would not be dismissed or taunted for his desires.

He would have to say something to Beast, and he would have to do it while they were alone. Beast had been imposed upon to attend Christmas dinner in Pottsfield, but Christmas Eve was to be a quiet affair at Edel Avenue. That would be just the right time for him to solicit Beast’s favor.

And of course he wouldn't be a brute about it. He would never presume to just appear on Beast's doorstep and start making demands or begging empty-handed. He was asking more than a little, and to justify it he'd have to bring something to put Beast in a sweet frame of mind.

He rang Beast’s bell on the last Friday evening of the year. Beast answered with flattering promptness and opened the door to reveal himself, as beautiful and black-draped as always, and Turtle beside him. The dog was wearing a festively patterned sweater that said CUTE BOY on it in big green letters. Lorna’s handiwork, probably. Enoch wondered what Beast had given the child as a gift.

Beast took one look at him and cocked a hip. Enoch grinned; he really thought he was getting rather better at reading Beast's reactions. The irritated amusement was vividly present long before Beast opened his mouth.

"You're not serious," Beast said.

"Do you like it?" Enoch asked, patting his burden. "One of the finest, according to Mr. Pearson."

"You didn't drive all the way here with that on the roof of your car," Beast said.

"Of course not. It was in the back."

Beast opened the front door wider. "Very well. Come in, Santa. You're a little early but luckily enough I can offer you something stronger than cookies and milk."

"Have you been nice, or naughty?"

"I've been a perfect angel."

Enoch supposed the Angel of Death did count, at that. He drew the evergreen through Beast's door and suppressed a chilly shiver as he went. He really thought it might actually be colder inside the house than it was out.

"Where would be a good place fir this?"

Beast scoffed. "Incredible. The living room, I suppose. But I haven't got a--"

"There's a stand in the car."

Beast gave him a long look and Enoch grinned at him. His host threw up his hands and let Enoch drag the plant into the living room and stand it beside the roaring fire in the fireplace. He held it steady as Beast went out in pursuit of the stand.

They got the tree up in short order, although Beast seemed thoroughly bemused by the gesture. Perhaps Enoch was going a little over the top, it was true. Maybe roses were more appropriate for this kind of thing.

Oh, but it was the season, after all. And the symbolism was too deliciously clear: how could he want anything more than he wanted Beast to sit on his lap? And if he should happen to mention all the wicked, bloody things he’d done that year…

“I don’t have any ornaments,” Beast said. “I’m afraid I didn’t really...do this, when I was still entertaining.”

“Blue Christmases, all?”

“I’m sure you remember Isolde’s parties,” Beast shrugged. “Watching her and the designer begin obsessing in September taught me to keep well-away from the struggle.”

“You’re a wise man, Beast. But not to worry. I’ve brought something along and I can do it very quickly.”

“I’m being dismissed,” Beast concluded correctly. “Well, I’ll pour us a drink, shall I?”

“You’re too good.”

Beast disappeared into the kitchen and left Enoch to handle the rest. In Enoch’s tradition, a Christmas tree was nothing without the odd festive pumpkin, a few glitter-encrusted decorations made by Sunday schoolers, and at least one pickle ornament. But after all, this was not a Pottsfield tree. Charming as the image of Beast trying to make head or tail of a middle-aged mermaid ornament was, Enoch felt pretty sure that a sparse and elegant tree would suit him so much more. He wrapped a line or two of small white lights around the tree and plugged them into the wall.

Beast returned with two steaming mugs.

“Will Miss Lorna be joining us?” Enoch asked.

“No. I’m afraid the child is in mourning for her aunt.” Beast sipped his drink. “Not the caretaker. Another one. Some kind of ghastly incident with a gas explosion.”

“Goodness. Merry Christmas.”

Beast let out a little titter and contemplated the tree. “It’s very pretty, Enoch. Very festive. Thank you.”

“My pleasure! I’m glad you like it.”

“I do. I hope dinner will be suited to the decor. I’m afraid I didn’t really think about the season, after I put my mother’s menorah away--”

Enoch blood ran cold. “Oh, my God.”

“Now, now--”

“I’ve made a complete ass of myself.”

“Oh, don’t think about it--”

“Beast. You might’ve said something!”

Beast was laughing at him. Enoch was sure of it.

“I thought you knew, Mr. Barnes,” Beast purred. “After all, I always keep my head covered.”

Enoch gave him a look. “You don’t keep kosher.”

“I never said I was a good Jew.” Beast beckoned him with a finger. “Come along. I shouldn’t tease you without giving you a little something back in return. It’s supper time.”

Despite all his teasing, Beast apparently had no compunction about turning out a more decorated table on short notice. The table was set with a china Enoch had not seen before and unfamiliar crystal glasses gleamed in the light of the candelabra. Enoch smiled at the pinecone and holly buds that sat at the foot of the blood-brined candleholder, wondering if he’d be lucky enough to happen upon a bit of mistletoe somewhere nearby.

Enoch slowly settled in the chair in which Mr. Hymann had spent his last moments, skin tingling at the thought of it. Before carving, Beast stood at the table and sharpened the knife with the rod that had been in their dinner’s brain just a few weeks ago. Perhaps that wasn't the most elegant display Beast had ever made of his good manners, but they were a family party, as Miss Clara had so charmingly observed at Thanksgiving, and Enoch wouldn’t trade his friend’s meticulous care of his blades, or the way he handled his weapon no more self-consciously than if it was a pencil, for anything.

Beast had brined Mr. Hymann’s loin in cider and coriander and served the trussed flesh in the pan, crackled golden skin and crunchy seared surface splitting beautifully under Beast’s knife to reveal the pale, perfect meat beneath. Yellow potatoes and red onions completed the tableau, and Beast served Enoch’s syrah in cut crystal. The aperitif had been steaming spiked cider served in teacups, doubtlessly the cousin of the juice that had bathed Mr. Hymann’s flesh.

Enoch ate three servings and felt absolutely no shame about it. At his request for seconds, Beast had chirped that he was absolutely welcome, giving him that peculiar little wiggle of his head that communicated how pleased he was.

At the request for thirds, Herod tilted his head and said, “Am I being flattered? Not that I’d tell you to stop.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying such a thing,” Enoch replied, smiling as Herod sliced him another scrap of Mr. Hymann. “I know very well that of the two of us, you’re far and away better a buttering a man up.”

Beast let out a short bark of his awful laughter and carved Enoch another slice. “Well, I’m more than happy to feed you this particular specimen. Just save room for dessert.”

“Oh?”

“Plum pudding. The suet was very fresh.”

Enoch grinned, nodding his thanks for the serving and reaching into his pocket. He produced the vial of morphine pills. “Speaking of dessert, I brought a digestif.”

“You are spoiling me,” Beast said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs.

“It is the season for loving one’s fellow man, Beast.”

“I think I used that line to pick someone up, once,” Beast murmured, sipping his wine.

After supper, Beast lit the plum pudding and brought it out on fire. Enoch could not help but think of the way the heart had burned in the basement, blue flame caressing chambers and ventricles, dipping hot, teasing fingers into holes and gaps, neglecting nothing, leaving nothing untouched. Beast was comfortable with fire, perhaps more comfortable than Enoch would expected a man so bundled up to be, and he let the pudding burn itself out before he served it with a cold, perfect swirl of hard sauce. The sugared butter melted and spread so slowly, rippling white across plump, brown, steaming cake.

Enoch probably didn’t need to be so worked up before he broached a tender subject with Beast. Maybe he would get lucky and Beast would find his excitement charming.

After dessert, they retired to the sitting room. Under Beast’s instructions, Enoch stoked the fire while his host fetched something from the music room. It was a relief to have some moments to remind himself exactly how he wants to put this. A misunderstanding between them had worked out beautifully once before, but he wouldn’t put either of them at the mercy of such a bumbling bid for drama again.

Beast came back with a slim volume in his hands and sat back on the sofa. He patted a spot nearby and Enoch obediently joined him. Beast passed him the book.

“‘Ghost Stories of an Antiquary,’” Enoch said. “A classic Christmas tale, hmm?”

“Tonight we are Victorians.”

“Things could get a little Wilde.”

Beast snickered. “Do you really consider those Wordsworth your breath?”

“I’m only warning you that reading this might scare the--”

“No.”

“Dickens out of you.”

“Ugh. You always go for the easy ones.”

“Well, I have a few for Shaftesbury but I’m afraid they’re all pretty blue.”

Beast sniggered a little. “And anyway, I am not reading them. You’re reading them to me.”

“Ah, a twist.”

“That’s right. I’ve given life to so many stories and it seems unfair that no one returns the favor for me.”

“Well, that’s just tragic. I’d better do something to rectify such a sorry state of affairs.”

They each took a pill and Enoch opened the book, beginning to read aloud. He could feel Beast beside him, gradually growing limper and limper, and Enoch smiled around the words of gore and grotesquerie. Beast’s head did not rest on Enoch’s shoulder. The absence of such a lovely unknown twinged him as a hollow ache.

When the Tracate Middoth was settled and Mr. Karswell’s tale was not yet begun, Beast let out a quiet sigh and Enoch looked up from the book. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked the winter seconds against the walls of the house. The steady orange fire lit the room, licking the horns of the deer skull mounted on the wall, and the Christmas tree twinkled in a corner, barren of gifts and spindly as a titanic spider.

Beast’s eyes were half-lidded, a little hazy, and as pale as ice.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes before Enoch turned a little on the sofa to look at him. Beast blinked and tilted his own head.

“I’d like to ask something,” Enoch said quietly. “For something, actually.”

Beast didn’t tense. Enoch’s heart swelled from the compliment.

“Well, you’ve got me limp and helpless on my sofa, full up of Christmas cheer and stoned on morphine,” Beast said. “So now’s the perfect time to ask me for any insane thing your heart desires, because you will not be hearing much in the way of protests.”

“Hm. Then perhaps now isn’t the right moment,” Enoch amended. The last thing he wanted to do was take advantage. This was a request that should not be made of the artificially uninhibited. Damn.

“I’m teasing,” Beast said, reaching out and touching his arm. “Please. I’m as sober as a judge on payday, so I can surely make at least some prudent choices.  Anyway, you know I’m not shy about registering disapproval. I did suspect that you had something on your mind, tonight. What is the matter, Enoch?”

“It’s nothing bad,” Enoch said quickly. “Nothing like the dining room--”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Beast said. “The candelabra is so out of reach. I’d have to inflict death by papercut.”

Enoch laughed a little, feeling his own nerves. “Ah-ha, no. No, I hope that won’t be necessary. I--well, let me start plainly. I found the incident with Mr. Hymann almost unspeakably exciting.”

Beast’s eyes watched his face, unsurprised. “Mmm, so that was it. You did seem moved. Such reactions are to be expected, in the presence of violent death.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t that, really. It was absolutely fascinating, of course, and I found it very exhilarating. Rather, I thought your role in it was exhilarating. You see, I’ve watched death before, but never like that. I’ve never seen anything like that, or like you.”

Beast dropped his eyes for an instant before they found Enoch’s face again. “...I’m grateful for the compliment, Enoch, but I don’t think I’m following you. Is something the matter?”

“I’m...trying very hard not to be coy,” he said, laughing a little at himself. “I’ve just never expressed this before, not to anyone, and even though I rehearsed it I’m afraid that in the moment--”

“You rehearsed what, Enoch,” Beast said, quite rightly.

“Yes. Sorry. Well, I think I’ve been very obvious about my interest, and you’ve been kind not to say anything,” Enoch said. “But I can’t be quiet about this...desire any more.”

Beast’s eyes widened. He leaned forward just a bit. “Desire…?”

“Yes. It’s consumed my mind, Beast, and I’m finding that it’s all I can think of, whenever I’m think of you and this house. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the liberty of frankness, when I know you appreciate a little more discretion and finesse…”

“Not at all. Go on.”

“I wonder,” Enoch said, “when all this blows over, and it’s just we two left in peace…”

“Yes, Enoch?”

“Do you suppose you would mind if I killed for our dinner?”

Beast blinked and sat upright and away. “I beg your pardon.”

Enoch stayed where he was. “Beast?”

Beast stared at him and deliberately untensed, tapping with both hands to find a place to recline on the sofa. “I’m sorry. How stupid of me. I think I’m higher than I thought.”

“Is this so much of a surprise?” Enoch asked, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I almost thought perhaps you…” Beast tossed his head and made a little scoffing noise. “I don’t know what I thought. Perhaps that you’d want me to do it again. Put on a show for you--that is, perform such a scene. But you want to…?”

“If it’s not a grave inconvenience.”

Beast caught the inadvertent pun and let out a nervous little giggle. Enoch thought it sounded a bit hysterical. Concerned, he touched Beast’s shoulder and rubbed a thumb against his arm.

“Mr. Barnes, I think I’m a bad influence on you,” Beast said.

“I know it’s a lot to ask--”

“Nothing! No, nothing of the kind. If you would like to, ah, get more in touch with the intricacies of human mortality, I’m more than happy to help you,” Beast said. “It’s the least I can do. I don’t need to tell you what a weighty thing it can be, planning so far ahead, but...I really had no idea that it was so bewitching an experience.”

“It’s obsessed my thoughts.”

“Dear me. That’s not good.”

“No. I imagine it isn’t.”

“Well. Yes. Perhaps in the new year? After the trial is over.”

“Naturally. I’m not in a great rush.”

“Good. Good. We’ll go about this carefully and...well, you can see all there is to it.”

Enoch smiled at him. “Thank you, Beast.”

“Don’t thank me until you do it and see what it feels like,” Beast replied. He rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and started towards the kitchen. “I think I’d be wise to make a little coffee. Would you like some?”

“Tea?”

“Certainly. I believe you were beginning to read another? And perhaps afterwards a walk would be appropriate. We can play Krampus and check all the neighbors' locks.”

Enoch smiled at him and turned his attention back to the book.

He should’ve known Beast would be willing to help expand his horizons.

***

December deepened and the year laid down to die.

On Christmas Day at four o’clock in the afternoon, Herod found himself in the First Pottsfield Congregational Meeting House, participating in a cocktail hour surrounded Pottsfield’s most significant corpses. At least they didn’t dress the dead up for the occasion, which was a bit of dignity that was not afforded to the living. Herod himself had only just avoided a frivolous hat, skirting the crowd when the caps and reindeer antlers were distributed and taking refuge with the erudite population of the older crowd. Others were not as lucky.

He took up a position beside Mr. Aspen and Miss Elizabelle, chatting quietly and making himself personable while Enoch worked the room. The stereo was playing some truly raucous holiday pop, which at least spared him the embarrassment of having to decline participation in caroling, and already the eggnog was extremely boozy.

Isolde would’ve loved it, but Herod wasn’t so sure it was perfectly to his taste. For one thing, he wondered how long he’d have to live before the image of a giggly, tipsy Miss Deen perched on Enoch’s lap would erase itself from his mind.

How embarrassing last night had been. When did he ever become such a fool? He should know better--he did know better! Granted that he couldn’t have seen Enoch’s actual request coming, there was just no excuse for the way he’d let his drunk and drug-addled imagination throw such cruel, insane hope on the pyre his libido.

Bygones. It wasn’t worth thinking about. Enoch hadn’t noticed, but then of course he’d have no reason to. It was better kept in the past. It was Christmas present, after all, and he should be soaking it all in.

With the little bit of money left over from the latest disability check, Herod had dedicated himself to Christmas. It was a charming thing, to have any kind of reason to acknowledge the holiday after so many years. He’d written what had seemed like a thousand cards to addresses in Pottsfield, along with one for Ms. Whispers and one for the veterinarian. Inspired, and certainly more sentimental than was wise, he’d even found his mother’s menorah in the basement and quietly observed the season for the first time in two decades.

He’d bought a good-quality gut knife for Lorna and had it delivered to his home with a week to spare. The girl had been delighted with it and hugged him very hard around the waist, and had presented him with a sweater for Turtle. His poor boy hadn’t grown his shaved fur back entirely, and Herod slipped the animal into his new clothing with a minimum of fuss. It did look absolutely ridiculous, but then, so did Turtle.

Herod’s gift to Isolde was a card and an invitation to dinner on Boxing Day, which Herod really expected would be turned down. If Isolde even managed to get to all her holiday correspondence before the middle of January, she would still be too preoccupied with the Christmas balls and dinners to possibly make it down for him. But perhaps they could do a little President’s Day something.

All that left was Enoch, himself.

He couldn’t possibly outspend the man, but fortunately he hadn’t felt himself very inclined to try. Only a simpleton loved a jewel more for its wealth of price than for its wealth of color. Thought and understanding was infinitely more important than expense, and Enoch understood that. Something Herod made by hand would not be scorned, provided it was well done.

He immediately dismissed any considerations of writing Enoch a piece of music. That ship had long since sailed: too many of the yearning, aching arias in The Werewolf of Dole were already proving to come a little close to home. (Goodness knew the hand-feeding scene was definitely not Herod’s most subtle moment.) Without some exchange of money there could be no two ways for one to understand a man writing a musical piece for them. It would be best not to alienate him with an effusion of passionate regard.

There was art to be considered. Lorna had acquired a sketchbook, which was dangerous in the extreme, but several of her little ideas were exceedingly pretty and he was sure she would be only too happy to pull something together for him, since he couldn’t very well go out and about himself. After all, Enoch had seemed interested in Lorna’s silly thing in the graveyard back in May, but then again Herod wasn’t entirely sure that Enoch actually liked it. Perhaps it had only been a puerile kind of fascination? He couldn’t know, since there was nothing that spanked of pathetic need for approval than asking someone out of the blue what they thought of your work, and Herod wasn’t quite that desperate. It wasn’t worth the risk, if the ‘sculpture’ wouldn’t be something that Enoch really enjoyed.

It was as he contemplated Mr. Hymann’s arm in the icebox that he realized just what he should do for Enoch.

It had always been so very obvious.

Herod walked quietly beside Enoch as they made their way back down Main Street towards the house. Enoch was in full Fezziwig mode and Herod smiled silently at the endless stream of holiday Pottsfield patter as they picked their way across small icy patches, Enoch’s hands alighting on his shoulders and arms now and then as if he thought Herod might slip.

“So they’ll all be over around six,” Enoch said, opening the front door. They kept their doors unlocked here. Turtle trotted up to greet them and licked his trousers. “A small party, this time, since of course Parson Bleak is probably going to fall asleep standing up and Miss Elizabelle is summoned to her sister’s home. I am sorry Miss Lorna couldn’t make it, but I suppose it is best to keep the holidays a family matter, when grief hangs over a house.”

“Mm,” Herod said. He shed his winter coat and patted the dog’s head. “I have a gift for you, Enoch.”

“Oh?” Enoch smiled at him. “Beast, you shouldn’t have--”

“I really shouldn’t have,” Herod agreed, “but if it’s unsuitable, you need only say the word and we won’t even mention it again.”

“I’m sure I’ll love anything you choose to give me.”

Herod smiled to himself. “Pardon me. I put the box in the guest room.”

“Ah, so that’s what that is. All right. I’ll stay here and try and contain my excitement.”

Herod retrieved the box and made his way back down into the living room, Turtle haunting him like a three-legged shadow. (He had become the masculine, canine equivalent of a crazy old cat lady. Perhaps that was just. Isolde had always said he’d wind up a spinster.)

“There are actually two things,” Herod said, already explaining as he entered the room. “And you might want to lock the front door for this. I’m not giving you anything terribly scandalous, but I think it’s best if we’re alone.”

“The neighbors will be suspicious, Beast,” Enoch teased. Herod _tch_ ed and sat down on the huge leather sofa. Enoch joined him, a reflection of the night before, and Herod passed the box to him.

Enoch gave him another smile and opened the plain, undecorated lid, and pulled out the first of his gifts.

“Beast,” Enoch murmured. He ran a hand over the pale, fragile bone, gently tracing an eye socket with one finger. Herod swallowed. “It’s...splendid.”

Herod grinned. Cleaning and polishing the deer skull had taken some time, but he thought it had turned out fairly nice. If he’d had more inspiration, perhaps he would’ve scrimshawed something on it, but nature bared and beautiful had its own kind of perfection. Simplicity was always more elegant than complexity.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I think I’ll put it in my office,” Enoch said. “Right on my desk. That should put the fear of God into any out-of-towners.”

Herod smiled. “There’s another.”

“Ah, that’s right.”

Herod had gone back and forth on this being in poor taste, but Enoch had a ghoulish streak a mile wide and Herod thought a little Halloween on Christmas might please him. He sat back and crossed his legs, trying not to tense.

Enoch placed the deer skull carefully on the coffee table and reached back into the box. He came up with a pale globe that sat very comfortably in his hand. His expression was unreadable.

Fuck, Herod thought. He’d tipped his hand. He thought he was avoiding the worst fawning excesses, but he’d been wrong. It was obvious, now that he saw Enoch holding it. He was an imbecile.

Enoch looked at him, eyes wide. “Is this Mr. Hymann?”

Herod winced. “Yes. You can tell from the hole in the--”

“Yes, that’s what made me think it was. I’m touched, Beast. Deeply touched.”

Herod just managed to keep his cool. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful. Are you sure you want me to have it?”

“Yes. I couldn’t have managed it without you. I don’t know if you’re the kind of man who takes trophies, but if it goes to anyone, it should be yours.”

Enoch ran both thumbs across Mr. Hymann’s brow and cheekbones, gentle fingers shifting down to run along his maxilla and cupping his occipital bone with profound tenderness. Mr. Hymann really was the luckiest son of a bitch.

“Oh,” Herod said, lurching forward and digging into the box. “Damn it, it fell off, you can never keep these on--”

“Hm?”

Herod held up Mr. Hymann’s mandible, triumphant and vaguely mortified. “If I’d been clever, I would’ve wrapped it up.”

Enoch looked at the mandible and at Herod, and burst into roaring laughter. Herod huffed and tossed the mandible into his lap, crossing his arms across his chest.

Enoch managed to get himself together quickly enough. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just…”

“I know. You have a weakness for gallows humor,” Herod sighed.

“I think I’ll keep him in my bedroom,” Enoch said, pushing Mr. Hymann’s mandibular condyle back into place. “Bring him out for Halloween and such.”

“He’s no Pottsfield corpse,” Herod admitted. “But then, who is?”

“I love it, Beast,” Enoch said, sitting back and propping the skull on his knee. “These are the most wonderful gifts. I think you’ll find my offering rather pale by comparison.”

“Paler than bone?” Herod asked, unable to resist, before he frowned. “Wait. You already brought me the tree, Enoch.”

“That’s not a gift, Beast. It’s a decoration. Stay here.”

Herod watched Enoch disappear and return with a small, soft rectangle wrapped in red paper. Herod took it and mumbled something inane, placing it in his lap and carefully picking at the tape.

Inside was a soft black scrap of knitted fabric. Herod tilted his head, holding the thing up.

It was a ski mask.

“Oh my word,” Herod said.

“Try it on,” Enoch said. “I’m not sure I got the size right.”

Herod waved a hand at him and Enoch turned away, letting him remove his mask and headscarf and pull the ski mask on. His breath caught a little as it brushed his skin, and when he had it in place Herod stroked his gloved fingers across his cheeks and chin, over his mouth and along the ruins of his nose.

“This is cashmere,” he said. “Enoch, you really--”

“It was either knitting this or pricing used cellos,” Enoch said, daring a glance at him. “And Miss Clara represented to me that cellos are really more birthday gifts. Ah, it looks nice.”

“You made this?”

“For a given value of ‘made.’ My cabling still leaves much to be desired. Is it a little tight?”

“We’ll call it formfitting,” Herod said, getting to his feet and hurrying over to the hallway mirror. The mask was jet black, with two windows for his eyes. It covered his mouth and nose entirely, clinging enough to reveal that he didn’t precisely have much in the proboscis department--but that could easily be confused for a diminutive nose. It pressed close to his skull and neck, the line of his jaw more visible than he thought it would be. “It’s perfect.”

“High praise!” Enoch said from the sofa, watching Herod’s freak of vanity with probably great amusement.

“It’s very thoughtful, Enoch,” Herod said, working his fingers over his face. Oh, it felt heavenly. “So warm.”

“You could use a little warmth, it’s true.”

Herod approached the sofa and perched himself on a chair. “Actually, talking of masks, I have a request.”

Enoch lifted his eyebrows.

“The court date is set,” Herod said. “The second Monday in January.”

“Finally.”

“Yes. It’s been represented to me that I should not be on the stand in my mask.”

“What?”

“My thoughts exactly. The prosecutor says it looks untrustworthy.”

“That cannot be legal,” Enoch said. A deep frown hardened his face. “Who is this lawyer? I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I hate it, but I think she may have a point,” Herod argued. “She thinks like a director. There’s a lot of language about sudden reveals and evoking sympathy. It will be humiliating, but I think it’s not a bad way to go, if we can’t settle out of court.”

“And we can’t.”

“No. As I understand it, the groundskeeper refuses to plead guilty, despite the evidence and his own attorney insisting that he take a plea bargain. He wants to drag me out in public and make a spectacle of me.” Herod sat back and crossed his legs. “I suppose we’ll have to give him his wish.”

“I suppose we will. Well, what can I do for you?”

Herod took a deep breath.

“If I should have to take the stand and remove my mask, everyone in that room is going to see my face.” He tensed even where he sat. His heart hammered at the thought of it. “And you may well be in the audience--”

“I certainly will be, if you want me there outside of my office as a witness.”

Ah, bless him. “I do want you there, yes. But I would ask you, if I have to remove my mask: would you do me a favor and close your eyes?”

Enoch processed that for a moment and gave him a quizzical smile.

“Of course, Beast,” Enoch said. “Anything you want.”

“Or, if not close them entirely,” Herod went on, “just not look. I don’t want it to be an indiscreet gesture, of course, but I...do not want to be seen like this. At least not by my friends.”

“I’d be happy to,” Enoch said. “Anything you ask, my dear Beast. Only name it. I could try and get on the phone to see what can be done about leaving you concealed, if you’d like…”

“I think it will be one supremely painful moment, but the reward is worth the risk,” Herod said. “Thank you, Enoch. I’m sure you must be curious, and I can’t really blame you, but--”

Enoch shook his head. “I do wonder, as I think anyone would. But it really isn’t so significant as to be a temptation for me, not like this. I’d rather wonder forever than see you against your will.”

Herod smiled.

“I’m smiling,” he said.

“Yes,” Enoch said, grinning back. “I thought that’s what that was.”


	14. The Hearth

The court date had been decided, and Enoch had been kind enough to volunteer his services as transportation to and from their sessions.

Sitting in the crowd, Herod swallowed and swallowed again, trying to stay still. In his jaw, a muscle twinged and bulged, and his teeth clenched together hard enough to hurt. He tried to focus his attention there, to lose himself in clean, all-consuming pain, but even his old friend was not enough of a distraction.

There were so many people.

They were all going to be looking at him.

Herod closed his eyes and breathed in through his ruined nose and out through his mouth. Once upon a time, this had brought him joy. He'd loved having an audience, then, and still did, after a fashion. But there was a gulf, terrible as hell, between a friend sitting in one’s dining room and expressing appreciation of one’s artistic abilities, and a horde of gawkers who had come to stare at a sideshow freak.

Herod scowled at himself. Melodrama! He wasn’t making this any easier.

He was already breathing too quickly. He stopped himself and held his breath. This was absolutely pathetic. He hadn’t been like this since before his first performance at the Met.

Herod tried to focus. He gripped his hands together and listened for his cue.

He couldn't look at the courtroom audience without turning his head, and he didn't want to seem to be anything but attentive, however little attention he was paying in actuality.

If she knew he was wool-gathering, Ms. Grey would probably have his guts out. She-devil.

He was so glad she was his lawyer. Herod placed even odds that he could've convinced the defense attorney that Mr. Endicott’s heart was neon green and had the man pulling it out with his own two hands to check.

Across the room, the groundskeeper was looking rough. Herod's bruises had long since faded and he felt barely any satisfaction in knowing his former servant was debased thus, when the only way Herod was privileged to see it was under conditions so perilous to Herod's own well-being.

Still. Herod thought the groundskeeper's silhouette was much improved, despite his face. At least they matched.

Opening statements were concluding.

"The prosecution calls Dr. Herod Lazarus Bethlehem to the stand," Ms. Grey said.

Herod swallowed, rose, and walked to the stand. He released his clasped hands and allowed his tremor to manifest as it rested upon the Bible, grateful to have finally found a way to use his hateful dread to his benefit.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the bailiff asked.

"I do," Herod said.

"Please be seated."

Herod sat. He looked out over the crowd. Lorna, deep in her role of ingenue, gave him a weak smile from where she sat beside Enoch.

Enoch smiled at him. They were much too far away for Herod to adequately account for the bloom of warmth that flushed across his neck and chest when he looked in that direction.

"Please remove your headdress, Dr. Bethlehem," Ms. Grey said.

Herod took a deep breath and drew back his headscarf, revealing his hair. A tease, yes, to tantalize his audience. Ms. Grey knew her theater.

"And the mask, please," she added.

Herod swallowed and closed his eyes, unable to bear this. His hand rose to his face and he pinched the bridge between the eyeholes of his mask.

He carefully shifted the silver face away and, for the first time in twenty years, felt strange light on his skin.

The dreaded gasps rose up rapidly and the whispering susurrus quickly grew so loud that the judge had to bang his gavel.

He felt skin flush with shame and he wondered if he was bright red. He wondered if his expression revealed his mortification and his hatred. Surely it did. It must. He hadn’t had to conceal his expressions in twenty years, and he wasn’t sure he even remembered how to do so now.

He didn't open his eyes. He didn’t want to see these people. His heart curdled inside him and after a few moments of spasmodic, animal panic, he reined in his breathing. If he could, he'd cut out every eye in the room and shove them down each throat, nerves and all.

If they'd let him testify naked but for the mask, he'd have taken the offer without a heartbeat's hesitation.

He put his face in his lap and opened his eyes. They fell immediately on Enoch.

Enoch was sitting with a serene smile on his lips and his beautiful eyes closed.

Though hatred was crackling into jagged stalactites in Herod's heart, he found himself wanting to kiss that man until he suffocated.

"Thank you, Dr. Bethlehem," said the unflinching Ms. Grey. Herod watched the way a smile curled her lips. Oh, she was a monster. "Can you please describe events of the night of the seventh of November?"

"I invited Mr. Enoch Barnes to my home for dinner that evening," Herod began, in the persona of the reclusive eccentric that the detectives knew so well. His voice sounded strange to his ears. He'd grown used to his little echo chamber of acoustic phenomena, and he struggled not to writhe as he heard his voice ring out. "It is our habit to have supper on Friday nights..."

He recited his story, gesturing only once--devastatingly once, he thought--at his throat when he arrived at the moment of ultimate torment. His groundskeeper stared him down.

Much, much good may it do him.

"Thank you, Dr. Bethlehem," Miss Grey said, all sympathy. "A chilling account, I think we can all agree."

Herod bowed his head and said nothing.

"Your witness," Ms. Grey purred at Mr. Endicott. Mr. Endicott scowled at her and adjusted his tie, and even Herod could see how the man darted glance after glance at the prosecutor as she sat down.

"Mr. Bethlehem, you tell a very unsettling tale," Mr. Endicott said. "I can only assume some of the power of the narrative comes from your being such a consummate showman."

Herod watched him, silent. Ms. Grey peered at Mr. Endicott with her eyes narrowed.

"You are a retired opera singer, are you not?" Mr. Endicott asked.

"Yes, I am."

"An actor, after a fashion."

Herod didn't answer.

"And a very good one, if former reports are to be considered. A masterful storyteller."

Herod glanced in Enoch's direction. The man's eyes were still closed but he was frowning ever so slightly.

"Objection," Ms. Grey said. "Relevance?"

"Only establishing the witness' character," Mr. Endicott said.

The judge hummed. "Come to your point, Mr. Endicott. Overruled."

Herod began quietly stroking the stone of his ring. Well. He was going to have to get clever, it seemed.

"For how many years was my client in your employ, Mr. Bethlehem?"

"Fifteen years."

"And you got along well until recently?"

"No. We had a functional business relationship. I would not say we were friendly."

"What were the grounds of this lack of harmony?"

Herod assumed an expression of reflective confusion. "I am not sure. I do not make myself very accessible, but I never thought I slighted him. He...spread rumors about me in the neighborhood. I must've done something to scare him."

"What would that be, Mr. Bethlehem? What could a person in your condition possibly do to frighten a grown man and a former police officer?"

Herod struggled not to tighten his jaw. Just in case he'd forgotten for an instant how pathetic he was…

Yes, time to burn this place down.

"I'm not sure," Herod replied. "I suppose he must've seen me with one of the bodies."

The court gasped. Ah, the theater. Herod watched Enoch carefully, catching the way the man's expression twisted. But he kept his eyes closed, oh, bless him.

The groundskeeper stared at him, astonished. Herod only barely mastered the urge to wink. Even Detective Tode, sitting out in the gallery, seemed amazed.

Mr. Endicott's eyes lit up, as if he couldn't believe his luck.

"Bodies, Mr. Bethlehem? What bodies?"

"The bodies in my basement," Herod replied. "Carcasses, I suppose you'd call them. Perhaps he saw me pulling one in, one day, and must've thought I was doing something illegal."

"Carcasses! Mr. Bethlehem, we haven't made any mention of carcasses in this case at all!"

"I'm sure there must've been some mention of it," Herod replied. "The detectives have seen them before. I'm rather proud of my deer hunting skills, and I'm afraid I can be a bit of a show-off about it."

Mr. Endicott's jaw dropped. "Deer?"

"Yes. I hunt them and butcher them in my basement. It's my most reliable source of meat, you see, since I do not make an income outside of my disability payments. I have a license, if you wish to see it."

"Wha...I..." Mr. Endicott said, astonished. The groundskeeper was turning purple.

Herod put on a concerned expression. (He thought it was concerned. It felt concerned.) "Perhaps your client believed me to be poaching...?"

"It's a lie!" the groundskeeper roared, shooting to his feet and stalking forward. "It's a lie! He kills and butchers children! I've seen him eating children's flesh off their bones! He's a monster! Murderer! Cannibal!"

Herod drew himself back, making himself look small and terrified as the judge banged his gavel and the bailiffs seized the groundskeeper. The jury started chattering and the audience broke into conversation as the judge bellowed for order.

"Have that man removed!" the judge barked, pointing at the groundskeeper. "The audience will be silent or I will bar the public from attendance!"

"Your honor--" Mr. Endicott began, as the bailiffs dragged the raving groundskeeper away.

"Mr. Endicott, I am calling a recess until you can control your client! We'll meet in half an hour. You're dismissed," the judge said, sounding perfectly appalled. He struck his gavel.

Herod put his mask back on. He smiled.

***

"You must have something," Quincy Endicott, Esq., hissed to his employee. "Anything!"

Fred lit himself a cigarette and leaned against the brick wall as he let Mr. Endicott dangle for a moment or two. "I might have something. Not sure yet. It's not coming clear."

"We are losing this case, Fred," Mr. Endicott snarled. "They are ordering a a psychiatric evaluation and you can give me nothing to work with! You incompetent mongrel, I employ you with the expectation that you will deliver results!"

"I've got a lead on a little something for Mr. Mayor," Fred replied, "but it hasn't materialized yet. It might be nothing."

"Tell me anyway!"

"I'm not about to give you the bullet you'll shoot yourself in the foot with. Think of it as a professional courtesy."

Mr. Endicott slammed the phone down. Fred sighed and waited for a minute or two, smoking.

He picked up the next call.

"Yup?"

"I need to know you're digging hard, Fred," Mr. Endicott said severely.

"I'm on the case, boss. I'll call when something turns up. Give me another few days."

"I'm already giving you as much time as I can. Get me something, Fred. I need you to get me something. I've got a noseless madman for a client and he's accused of attacking another noseless madman. It's an absolute circus."

Fred snorted.

"You've got to get me something I can use to get a word in edgewise. I need to break this witness."

"I'm working on it. As soon as I ring off, I'm after my other lead."

"Fine. Good night."

"Good night."

Fred turned off his phone. Poor old Endicott. He was going to lose this one, and Fred was going to be right beside him to watch him lose it.

When a man like Fred smelled the stink Fred was smelling, it could only mean one thing.

He was going to get one hell of a raise, and Mr. Mayor was going to be footing the bill.

***

"Mr. Barnes, could you please state your occupation for the jury?"

Ms. Grey had the most quintessentially professional smile Enoch had ever seen. He almost would've thought he was being flirted with.

"I'm the mayor of Pottsfield, just outside the city."

"That's right," Ms. Grey said. "And you work keeps you very busy, doesn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am, it does."

"But you make time for your friends, don't you? An honorable past time."

"I make time for some pleasures, yes, ma'am. I think any man must."

"How very true. Can you please recount the events of the night of November 7?"

Enoch settled back in his seat and began to tell the story. He wanted to let himself speak the way he usually did, with an occasional meandering aside explaining--or, in this case obfuscating--some detail in the story itself. But that would do him no good, here. It was fine to give a police detective or two a little of the run-around, but the jury was listening for a rational, focused, concise witness, without imagination or fantasy.

This was what was wrong with the justice system, really. The jury certainly knew the cut-and-dry facts by now. They must find the groundskeeper guilty, with this overwhelming body of evidence. So what could he really offer, after all, if they didn't permit him his own unique perspective on the matter?

And it was hardly fair that he wasn't equipped to pay Beast back for Beast's testimony.

The man was so very bad, driving the whole court into a great kerfuffle like that. Enoch's will had never been so tested as it had been as he sat there with his eyes stupidly closed, blood stinging with bright panic as Beast began talking about the bodies in the basement. Of course, he'd been sure Beast was up to something the moment the word left his mouth, but precisely what, he couldn't know. Beast hadn't given him any warning at all!

In hindsight Enoch really should've seen it coming. Beast loved an audience hanging on his every word. It would've been too much to expect him to resist, really.

And God knew Beast deserved to have a little fun with his tormentors, after being so cruelly forced to remove his mask. It was only unfair that he hadn't been able to do more, really.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes," Ms. Grey said at last. "I have just one more question."

She leaned close.

"How's the dog doing?" she asked.

The jury broke into scattered giggles and the judge cast Ms. Grey an admonishing look.

"He's just fine. Got a new sweater over Christmas," Enoch smiled.

"No further questions. Your witness," Ms. Grey said, strolling back to her seat.

Enoch glanced into the audience, where Beast sat with Lorna. From here, Enoch couldn't quite tell what Beast's state of mind was. He hoped Beast was enjoying the show.

Mr. Endicott stood up and promptly began shuffling his papers and hemming and hawing.

"You witness, Mr. Endicott," the judge intoned.

"Ah, yes, yes, I know," Mr. Endicott said. "Ah--"

The groundskeeper reached out and pulled on the man's sleeve. Mr. Endicott snapped his arm away.

"I have no questions for this witness," Mr. Endicott said tightly.

The judge gave him a look. "None, Mr. Endicott?"

"None. Your honor."

Beside his attorney, the groundskeeper's face twisted in a snarl. He remained silent.

The judge looked at Enoch. "You're dismissed, Mr. Barnes."

"Thank you."

***

Herod almost spat his wine.

"Oh, settle down," Isolde said. "So dramatic."

"What," he hacked around the acid burning at the back of his throat.

"Corintha," Isolde repeated. "My school friend. You remember her."

"I do not. You do not have any living school friends."

"As if you would know one way or the other. I said, Corintha wants to be your patroness. She comes from a good family, you see, or at least moderately good, and she wants an opera done for her.”

Lorna was sitting at the table with stars in her eyes. “Oh, Herod! How wonderful!”

They were having dinner together on a Tuesday evening. The days were getting colder and colder, and the ladies were sitting in their winter coats at the table. Lorna always wore hers, when she visited him, and if she neglected her gloves Herod was beginning to be able to tell how long she’d been with him by how deep a shade of lilac her nail beds turned.

It was embarrassing, Herod knew, but there simply wasn’t all that much he could do about it. He kept the fire roaring when there was company and froze when he was alone, and that was that.

At least the food was hot.

Herod squinted at Isolde. “How old is Corintha?”

“I’m sure it never occurred to me to ask something so colossally inappropriate,” Isolde sniffed.

“What’s Corintha’s home address?”

“I can look about in my notebook for a moment, but that’s hardly relevant information at the moment. Especially if you’ve already determined that you wouldn’t condescend to write an opera for a respectable woman. I won’t bore you with details, in that case.”

Herod pointed a finger at his cousin. “You had better not be sock-puppeting this woman.”

“I?” Isolde cried, scandalized. “I would never! I would not dream of it! I would not insult you by tricking you into taking an earned wage, when you won’t even dip into your rightful inheritance--the gates of which are thrown open to you!--far enough to make your home habitable!”

“My home is perfectly--”

“Or visitable!”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“In my furs!” Isolde replied. She waved a hand at Lorna. “And look at the poor child you keep in this house with you! Not that you would care, you prideful creature, but it is not vogue in ladies’ fashion to wear winter coats indoors, Beast!”

Lorna turned red and dropped her eyes.

Herod heaved a sigh and turned his attention to his plate. “I...do sometimes wonder if this is the season when the roof will finally cave in.”

“Oh, Beast. You’re not still sleeping in that bedroom, are you?”

“Well, where else would I sleep?” Herod shrugged.

Isolde shook her head, exasperated. “Please write an opera. I ask you on my knees, write an opera. I grovel on the floor, write and sell an opera. I can’t bury you, Beastie. I don’t have a damn thing to wear to a funeral this season, not until I can get the plumed hat reshaped.”

Herod rolled his eyes. “Yes. Fine. Commission me. I will write an opera for ‘Corintha.’”

“Thank God. I’ll have her call you in a few days.”

“Just enough time for you to hire a decent actress,” Herod groused.

“Think of the children,” Isolde pouted.

“Stop. Lorna’s color will get stuck that way,” Herod said. He looked at his young friend and pushed the serving plate across the table towards her. “Eat up.”

***

She'd caught a cat in one of the traps.

Lorna's fingers twitched in her gloves and she licked her lips. It was someone's housecat. A pet. She could tell, because it looked clean and healthy.

It might be Beatrice's cat. Did Beatrice have a cat?

Lorna swallowed and opened the cage, reaching in and pulling the cat out. It had been declawed in the front, and it settled in her arms, unafraid and unassuming. Just a housepet. Probably one somebody loved.

Lorna petted it slowly. If only the Mormons or the Jehovah's Witnesses would come by. If only Auntie Whispers wouldn't check the refrigerator for fresh meat! School was plodding and disappointing--not at all the kind of thing she had imagined--but Lorna didn't want to stop going. It was so much better to work towards some kind of degree, then to just be left at home, waiting for Auntie Whispers to leave her the house as inheritance.

She had to do something. School was the only way. She didn't know what else to do.

If only she could get a bite to eat!

It wasn't fair, to leave it all to Herod. Poor Herod, humiliated in public and freezing to death by degrees. That stunt with the mask was so ghastly, all the more because she knew what was underneath it, now. No wonder he was so terrified of being exposed.

At least his part of the trial was over. He wouldn't have to be some kind of spectacle to be gawked at anymore. She had to do something nice for him.

Maybe a quilt. Maybe an apron. Something he couldn't do for himself.

After all, she couldn't do for herself. At least he could hunt.

She couldn't stand it. She just couldn't stand it.

Lorna clenched her hands very hard around the cat and listened to it yelp and yowl, before throwing it away. The cat leapt to the ground and raced away, startled. It wouldn't be coming back.

Good. She couldn't be sure she wouldn't break its neck, next time.

***

It only took the jury a few hours to deliberate. Herod found that to be a reassuring prospect. He was ready to be done with this. Dick Wolf had a lot to answer for. Criminal cases weren’t nearly as interesting as one might hope, although Herod certainly had done his bit to make this one dramatic.

"Madam Foreman, please read the verdict," the judge said.

The older lady stood up and read from her sheet of paper. Almost without thinking, Herod reached out and took Enoch's hand.

Enoch returned the gesture, treating Herod to more of his wonderful charity of touch. It had been a long, long time since Herod had wanted to reach for someone, and longer still since he’d thought they would reach back. He was glad that Enoch was the one to be so generous and so unsqueamish.

"On the charge of attempted murder in the first degree," the foreman said, "we find the defendant guilty."

Herod exhaled. Mindful of the eyes on him, he did no more.

In his seat, the groundskeeper slumped, as if he'd caved in on himself. Herod felt a cruel stab of satisfaction and greedily drank in the sight of the man defeated.

Beside him, Enoch shifted and wrapped an arm around him, as if to draw him under his wing. Herod smiled. Such a gallant protector, and a more-than-decent actor, to boot. Who could ever ask for more?

The judge cleared his throat. "I remand the defendant to the custody of the state, until the sentencing meeting. Case dismissed."

The gavel tapped and the people in the court began to stand up and mill about. Herod rose up beside Enoch and leaned slightly on him as people offered quiet congratulations and the occasional sympathetic smile.

Every single one of them had seen his face. Not a single one offered him their hand.

Hateful, hateful things.

Ms. Grey, however, was made of sterner stuff. She turned to give Herod’s hand a perfunctory shake, and lingered a moment over her clasp with Enoch, before she was off and away to accost Mr. Endicott.

Enoch ran his hand over Herod’s back. Despite the tension and the stress and the fear, Herod thought he was in serious danger of melting to the floor.

"All right?" Enoch asked quietly.

"Oh, yes," Herod purred. "For God's sake, let's go pop a cork and do something wicked. If I had to pretend to be frail and elderly and miserable any more, I'm going to snap."

Enoch breathed a soft laugh and walked with him out of the courtroom. Down in the parking lot, he held the car door open for Herod and closed it behind him, and Herod smiled as he sat on the seat and contemplated the wintry world outside.

When Enoch sat behind him, Herod turned to look at him.

“Congratulations,” Enoch said.

Herod eyeballed him a little. “Thank you. It could not have been done without you.”

“Oh, I did the merest, meagerest little--”

Herod put his fingertips across Enoch’s mouth. Enoch’s skin was warm through his glove.

“Thank you,” Herod repeated. “It could not have been done without you. I would’ve killed his body, but it never would've occurred to me to kill his soul.”

Enoch raised his eyebrows and did not move Herod’s hand. He looked amused.

“You’re a visionary in the field,” Herod murmured.

“Speaking of which,” Enoch murmured against his fingers. Herod drew his hand away. "When do you think it would be convenient for me to take the reins regarding supper?"

Oh, damn. Supper.

He didn't want Enoch to do it. It was one thing, for Herod himself to be gore-splattered and wretched, crouched over a warm corpse and gnawing on human bones like a dog. It was even another thing, to kill a man in front of Enoch, as long as it happened cleanly and Herod could put the meat on a plate for him. But for Enoch to be the one to lower himself...

He didn't like it. Enoch was a good man, the last one Herod knew. How could he live with himself, if he ensured that that goodness was tarnished and stained?

Why wouldn't he just let Herod do it? Herod was perfectly suited to the work. Herod's hands were already broken and twisted, so who would notice the blood? There was always one corpse up and walking in this house, so who would notice one more dead thing in the halls?

But it would be a horror, to have Enoch's hands stained red, and worse, to have Enoch's living beauty contrasted with the wastedness of a corpse. Herod had always known that, and told himself as much even as he stood beside Enoch, never as close as he'd like. How much much more hideous would it be, if Enoch were to hold a corpse in his hands?

Enoch was going to see how ugly it was. It was better if he just let Herod do it, so it could be contained and concealed, all the stains blurred with his own blood and indistinguishable.

But Enoch was determined. He would dare the ugliness of it and he trusted Herod to guide him through. And as ugliness was all Herod had to offer anyway, he might as well give Enoch all he had.

And it was morbidly selfish of him to hesitate, when it was what Enoch wanted. Who was he to tell Enoch how to comport himself?

"Whenever you would like," Herod replied. "Would it be very much to ask, if we waited until sentencing?"

"No, not at all," Enoch agreed. "I'm a patient man, Beast. I'm in no great hurry."

"Do you know how you want to do it?" Herod asked.

"I go back and forth on the subject," Enoch replied, putting the key into the ignition and turning on the heat. “I’m not certain what would be best.”

"I can make a few suggestions.”

"I'm sure you can. I'm thinking that whatever it is, it'll have to be quick enough that I can do it before I lose my nerve."

Herod smiled thinly. Ah, nerves. It was such a different thing, when this could be planned. "Of course. Well, you are very strong. Perhaps you've considered breaking the neck?"

Enoch huffed a laugh. "Is it strange that I can only imagine someone throttling a chicken?"

"Oh, dear. And here I thought choking farm poultry was just a euphemism..." Herod purred.

Enoch glanced at him and hiked up an eyebrow, amused. “Now that’s a can of worms you don’t want opened. I think I know just about every farm-related bawdy pun on the earth, and I don’t want to have to scandalize you by returning fire."

Herod snickered. "How do you feel about blunt force trauma?"

"Might not be bad. If I can do it neatly."

"Try not to get too bound up in that," Herod advised. "You wouldn't believe how sloppy my first time was. It's not worth obsessing about doing it cleanly, the first few times. Just think about getting it done, hmm?"

Enoch swallowed and shifted in his seat. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. You mentioned the mess before, I think..."

"Had to throw that dressing gown away. Oh! And that reminds me: if you’re not sure what you want to do, you might as well prepare for anything, so I don’t suggest you wear your work clothes."

Enoch grinned. "Oh, Beast, I'm afraid you don't know what you've done. Miss Clara abominates my weekend wardrobe. I can only imagine what you'll think."

"Please tell me you don't wear--"

"In summer I have a few very loud Hawaiian shirts."

Herod shuddered. "Oh, God, no. I think I’m going to faint."

"But I'll probably wear a flannel, since it's cold."

"Of course," Herod sighed. "I'll try and prepare myself for the shock of it all. But whatever it is you wear, operate on the assumption that you might want to throw it away. I suggest a change of clothes."

"Fair enough."

"Have you flicked through a cookbook? I'm happy to make you anything you'd like. It will be a rather special night, after all."

"I think we might know it when we see what we’re working with. Let’s be spontaneous."

"Hm. You may not feel like eating, anyway, for a little while. Not unless you really come ravenous."

"I don’t think that will be difficult," Enoch murmured.

"Give it a little thought as to method between now and then, and you can let me know what you like. I have quite a little rope, if you want to try something with that, and of course the kitchen knives are at your disposal."

Enoch smiled to himself. “You’re raring to go on this, aren’t you?”

Herod cringed a little. “I just want to make sure we have everything we might want. I've never guided anyone through this before."

"I should hope not."

"It's a serious undertaking," Herod said, unable to stop himself. "I want you to know I'm with you, however you decide to do it. I think it's terribly important that you know that. I...really don't think anyone should be alone, when this kind of thing happens. Especially not you."

Enoch frowned and looked at him with his soft, lovely eyes. "I hope I haven't been making light of something significant, Beast. I can only imagine that your own experience must've been...traumatizing."

Herod waved his hand. "Well, yes, it was. But it's long over. I'm perfectly numb to it now. I just don't want you to have a similar experience, that's all. It won't be an attack, for you. You get to plan it. That's a precious thing."

Enoch made a low, soft sound.

Oh, no. He would not be pitied for this.

Herod cut Enoch a look and and tched. "Enoch. Cease. All that matters is that we do everything we can to make this an experience to think back on with a smile. Think about it very, very carefully, and we’ll work out anything you like.”

“You have the soul of a teacher, Beast,” Enoch smiled.

“Somehow I do not think I will have too many students battering down my door.”

Enoch put the car in gear. “Come on. I think a popped cork sounds like just the thing.”

Herod smiled and settled in for the ride.

Perhaps they were heading out of the frying pan and into the fire, but there was nothing that could be done about it. He was going to have to trust Enoch to know what he wanted to do.

He just hoped he could keep it clean.

*** 

Lorna put down the rock and panted a little, watching the moonlight catch her breath and turn it silver.

This was better. This was a lot better. She bent her head.

When she sat back up, she had to suck at her lips and teeth. They were dripping wet and she put a gloved hand in front of her mouth as she slurped herself clean, licking her lips.

Ew.

She pulled off her gloves and a few Ziploc bags out of her pockets and picked up Herod's Christmas present to her, and took a few things for later. She flayed the hands and put the skin into a baggie, and put that and the other things into her pockets. They were still warm and they pressed heavily against her through the lining of her coat. She wiped her hands on the paper towel.

She picked up the rock again and smashed it against the mouth, until the teeth were all broken and the jaws were deformed.

Then she got up and dragged it to the stream. She stuffed rocks into its pockets and shoved it in, pushing it further away with a stick until it sank.

It wasn't good. She wasn't proud of herself. She always thought it was a sin to waste food--think of the poor starving children in Indiana, after all--but there was just nothing to be done for it.

Lorna scuffed the marks of her rainboots off of the stream shore and put her gloves back on. She walked out of the park and headed back for home.

She paused at the mouth of the woods. A man was walking his dog.

Lorna trotted over. Herod touched the brim of his hat for her and she smiled, falling into step beside him. He offered her his arm and she took it, walking silently beside him for about a block.

"You have a little something there," Herod said at last, gesturing along the right side of his silver mouth with his thumb.

Lorna let him go and scrubbed at her face, embarrassed. "It's got to be a secret."

"I won't say a word, even in the unlikely event that your aunt invites me for tea and interrogation."

"I wish I could do this in the basement," Lorna said, taking Herod's arm again. "It's too dangerous, this way."

Herod tilted his head. "I fear I may have been neglecting you."

"What? No! No, of course not."

"I am at your disposal, my dear. Now that the trial is over, you can use my home, if it's convenient for you."

Lorna shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't. It's not fair, to make it more dangerous for you, just because I can't do it in my house. And anyway, it's not like it'll be a secret from Auntie Whispers. She'll know I'm being wicked."

Herod didn't say a word.

"I've got to work it out for myself," Lorna said. "I went...two, three months without it. Not a thing since the middle of October, really. Maybe, if I push myself, I can get down to two a year. Wouldn't that be good? Just two?"

"I think it's a reasonable goal," Herod agreed. "That's what I aim for, although I tend to stay more at three or maybe four."

"We kill too much," Lorna sighed. "It's embarrassing."

"I'm afraid so," Herod said. "But what can be done? We must eat."

"I'm sorry I depend on you so much.  It's not right.  You have enough to worry about, without keeping me fed."

Herod patted her hand.  "Finish your schooling. You'll be free and clear someday, and then you can take care of me in my dotage and hunt for me when I’m too arthritic to chase down six year olds."

Lorna smiled and leaned her head against his arm.

"I'll clear a shelf in the icebox for you," Herod said, "and I'll have a key made."

Lorna gave him a squeeze.

"Thank you," she whispered.

They walked together for a long time.

***

"Well?" Isolde demanded. "And how did it shake out, Beast?"

"Life with parole," Herod replied, lifting his glass. "Not nothing. I'm very pleased."

"With parole?" Isolde echoed. She scowled. "It's an outrage! He'll be out in ten years!"

"Then I'll just have to have a more robust security system in ten years," Herod replied, cutting a sliver of his roast.

Although Isolde had not bothered to warn him that she would be in attendance for dinner that Friday, she had brought two bottles of wine with her and Herod found that this was enough to excuse her. Fortunately for all parties, the sentencing had only just come down on Wednesday, and he and Enoch had not had the time to any wheels in motion regarding a hunt.

There was still enough of Mr. Hymann left to go around, anyway. Ground up, mixed with bacon, and rolled into meatballs, Mr. Hymann was more than passable if he was served with a mushroom gravy, caramelized onions in a balsamic reduction, and some of Mr. Pearson’s excellent kale.

"I can't believe you wouldn't let me help,” Isolde snapped. “I knew that judge when he was still in short pants and ringlets. My God, it’s a humiliation! With parole, for attempting to kill a member of our family?"

Herod cast Enoch a glance and found his guest's candle-lit eyes on him, the barely stifled smile on his face speaking volumes about his view on the matter. He must think they were totally ridiculous. He would not be wrong in that view.

Herod bobbed his eyebrows behind his mask and thought Enoch could tell, if the way he showed his teeth meant anything.

"A little more of the red, if you don't mind, darling," Isolde said to Herod, holding out her glass. Herod filled it. "And I say again: with parole? Absolutely obscene! Your great-great-grandfather once shot a man in cold blood for failing to offer his hand to your great-grandmama when she was getting out of a cab."

"I am well aware of my great-great-grandfather's exploits. I think you'll remember that he was later drawn and quartered--"

"My point is that that is what people who insult your family get, Beastie," Isolde said. "Hercule being drawn and quartered was politics, not disrespect. In fact he was very proud it it, at the time. But hanging!"

"Is hanging innately disrespectful?" Enoch mused.

"Of course it is. You were there, you saw it happen. It's so undignified," Isolde said with a well-mannered shudder. "All the twitching makes one a laughingstock. God alive, parole! You should've taken the rifle. I tried to give it to you. I begged you to take it. You can't say I didn't always try."

"I'm a conscientious objector, Isolde," Herod replied. "I think it'd reflect rather poorly on my pacifism if I had an elephant gun with which to protect my home."

"You might at least have a man to run off such attackers," Isolde went on. "I mean, I just don't know what I'd do if I didn't have Ives."

"And what has Ives done lately that proves his worth?" Herod asked.

"Oh, we had the most unpleasant little man come by the house, asking a number of impertinent questions about the nineties. I've no notion how he got past Sylvia. Usually she's so good at getting rid of such pests."

"Charm, perhaps?" Enoch suggested.

"Oh, no. Sylvia's a rock. I think this vile young excrescence just managed to muscle in. But soon enough he met my dear Ives, who chased him out with the fire poker."

"How far, this time?" Herod asked. On one memorable occasion in the eighties, Ives had chased a particularly persistent suitor down to the harbor and straight off a pier. He’d made some of the gossip rags by remaining there for a full forty minutes, menacing the man in the water with the poker.

"Only to Fifth Street. I understand that the young man leapt into a dumpster and Ives kept him on the skids for about five minutes more before deciding the trash was well and truly taken out."

Beside Herod, Enoch reached up and rubbed his nose a bit, physically wiping away his smile and replacing it with an expression of bland good will.

"What kinds of questions was the young man asking?" Enoch inquired, sipping his wine.

Isolde turned her head, earrings swaying, and Herod watched with some concern as she looked at Enoch with an uncannily reptilian kind of stare. It only lasted for an instant, and presently her smile broke like rosy-fingered dawn across her lips. She shook her head.

"Oh, some ancient scandal, my darling boy. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. We certainly handled it. Beastie, throw another log on that fire, will you? It's frigid in here, you know, absolutely arctic. You must be nothing but ice under those clothes."

"I think I'm getting used to it," Herod replied, rising from his seat and putting his hand on Enoch's shoulder to abort his motion towards rising.

"That would be the onset of frostbite, dear. Enoch, my beauty, my amuse-bouche, why won't you take him home and warm him up? He won't come to my house, so you're going to have to be it."

"Oh, I’ve tried. I'm afraid I'm just not sufficiently persuasive," Enoch replied as Herod prodded the fire in the living room and placed another log across the blackened wood. "Perhaps you and I together can convince him."

"I won't be conspired against in my own home," Herod said as he returned. "You can eat your desserts in the snow, if this is what it's come to..."

“Speaking of pridefully disdaining the generosity and affection of one’s relations,” Isolde said, “where is Corintha’s opera?”

“It’s been less than three weeks, Isolde. You can’t write a decent jingle in three weeks.”

“I didn’t know you wrote operas, Beast,” Enoch said, a slow smile spreading across his mouth. “You’re a man of many talents.”

Herod wiggled his head a little. “I don’t know if I would say I write them, but--”

“But he’ll take money for doing it,” Isolde said. “Or by God I’ll shove his inheritance down his gullet.”

“Which will take some time, considering that your assets are not exclusively liquid,” Herod replied.

“There’s a dirty joke to make there, but a woman in my position in life is entirely above such behavior, so just assume I made it and leave it at that. Operas, Beast. Give me whatever you have. She’s frantic to put an advance in your hand.”

“She’s imaginary,” Herod groused.

“She’s a dear friend,” Isolde pouted.

“Well, I want to hear it,” Enoch said. “What can I do, Beast, to tempt you to play a little after supper?”

“You’re a demanding guest, Enoch,” Herod replied, cutting a bite of his meal. “Perhaps that’s how I should make my way in the world. ‘Corintha’ can go back to performing in whatever revue Isolde hired her from and I can just leave a tip jar on the piano.”

When their plates were empty, Enoch excused himself to the bathroom as Herod took away the dishes. Isolde sat at the table, drinking another glass of wine.

Herod sidled up to her. "This young man who came to your house. Grey hair, grey suit?"

"Hair, yes, suit, no. Big teeth, I thought. Sort of fecklessness about him."

Herod nodded.

"You've seen him," Isolde said. She pressed her jewel-encrusted hands into her fur coat and pushed it up towards her jaw. "What does he want? He was asking about Enoch."

"What did you do for Enoch in '94?" Herod asked quietly.

"Absolutely nothing."

“‘93, then.”

“I never did a thing, Beastie, except bring him to some good parties and performances and send him to get me a drink, now and then.”

Herod frowned severely at her. "Isolde. You did something for him, or you wouldn't have looked at him like that. What did you do?"

"I have nothing to tell you, dear, nothing at all. I know you always thought I was such a manipulative busybody, but I have to disappoint you. He's spotless."

"Fine. Keep your silence. I know you helped him, and that's all that matters. But..." Herod held her eyes and leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did he ever...thank you for your kindness?"

Isolde laughed at him and patted her hand against his veiled cheek. "Good Lord! How scandalous! How incestuous! No, darling. You know I'm still devoted to my late husband--"

"Don't mock me, Isolde," Herod hissed. His breath was tight inside him.

Her hand was much gentler this time, the heel pressing softly against his jaw. "No. For a thousand reasons, no, though in hindsight none of those reasons were all that good. You may rest easy, knowing that he never 'thanked' me for anything."

Herod nodded, heaving a sigh of relief. “Good.”

“Would it have mattered so very much, Beastie, if he had?” Isolde asked, her lips quirked. “I mean, you two certainly aren’t…”

“No. Of course not. But it...would pain me, to know he was still carrying a torch for you.”

“Oh, my little poppinjay,” Isolde sighed. “It’s so hard to believe you’re beyond the grasp of passion. And however true it might be, it’s the cruellest thing, because you’ll never really convince yourself of its truth. You will always hope, but for your sake, I wish you didn’t have to.”

“I don’t,” Herod lied. “Of course I don’t. It’s just companionship. It would’ve been envy, not jealousy.”

Isolde shook her head. “Then be happy. You have nothing to covet, dear, except all the usual things.”

Herod held back a long sigh. He’d already been more than pathetic enough, tonight. "Give me your flask and I'll fix your coffee."

“Ah, thank goodness. You remember yourself,” Isolde smiled, digging through her layers for her garter. “You’re absolutely no entertainment at all, when you’re tortured.”

“No, I imagine you must like me much more when I’m just making the usual kind of ass of myself, instead of the tragic protagonist.”

Isolde handed him the flask and winked at him. "You're a good boy, Beastie, even if you are totally ridiculous."

Herod shrugged a shoulder and took the flask. "Oh, I suppose so. Looks change, but I stay the same."

Isolde chortled quietly and waved him off. “And limber up your fingers, dear! I’m starving for a little decent music, and I want to tell Corintha all about the work.”

***

"Holy fucking shit," Detective Tode said, staring at the paper.

"Right?" Detective Frugg replied.

"Holy fucking shit," Detective Tode said.

"I know! Right?" Detective Frugg grinned.

"You're pulling my fucking leg."

"Not a chance."

"How sure are we--"

"We're sure."

"How sure?"

"Fuckin' sure, Al! Come on. This is a bee eff dee and I don't know about you but I'm gonna be there to see it."

"Shit. Shit! Can you imagine--after all the shit--and now, like this--"

"I don't even wanna think about it. C'mon."

"What? Now?"

"Right this fuckin' second, Al! Come on!"

They got down to the lockup and traded nods and grunted chit-chat with the guards. Lockup boys didn't know about this shit. They didn't grasp the history. They just thought it was a cute story.

Bullshit.

The old man was looking rough. He sat so heavily into the chair on his side of the partition that Detective Tode would've thought they'd brought out his corpse, if it weren't for the way the chest rose and fell. You'd have to be inhuman, Detective Tode thought, to have known the old man as he was, and see him like this, and not feel raw grief scrape against your ribs.

It couldn't be borne, thank God. This was the most spectacular instance of such a thing as Detective Tode had ever heard. Jonah must've felt like this, when the Leviathan had carried him to the wasted deeps and spat him back up ashore.

"Got some news for you," Detective Frugg said, really laying it on. How he was keeping a grin off his face, Tode hardly knew, but he was hiding his behind his cigarette.

The old man didn't respond.

Detective Frugg waved a hand at the guard. "Show 'er in."

The guard opened the door.

A small woman stepped into the room, her long brown hair swaying with her footsteps. She had a pretty face, long and pale, and what used to be her Daddy's nose.

She stared at the man behind the partition and seized her handbag with curled fingers. Tears rose up in her dark eyes.

"Dad?" she asked.

The old man looked up at the girl, and his eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open and he tried to work his voice, color flushing up into his skin like a fever. His eyes went wet.

"Dad," the woman said, lurching towards him before her feet could match her mind. She stumbled forward and shouldered past Detective Tode and Detective Frugg, dropping her handbag on the partition desk and pressing her hands against the glass. "Dad, is it you?"

Tears spilled down the old man's wasted cheeks and he began to shake. He nodded his head, unsteadily trying to press his own hand against his daughter's.

"Oh, God," she sobbed. She was smiling. Detective Tode felt a little something in the base of his throat. "Oh, thank God. I thought I'd never see you again."

The old man couldn't speak.

Detective Tode looked at Detective Frugg. Detective Frugg's eyes were wet, so Detective Tode kicked his shoe.

"We'll let you catch up," Detective Tode said, though no one was listening.

"Hey," Detective Frugg said to the guard in the room on their way out of the room. "Think they could be in a room where they can touch?"

"I don't know, sir," the guard said. "I'll have to ask."

"Ask. Think if you had a kid, yeah?"

"Yes, sir."

Detective Tode met Detective Frugg in the hallway with him and tapped him out a cigarette.

Detective Frugg took it without a word and let Detective Tode light it. He took a shaky drag of it and blew it out. He sniffed.

"Lookitchoo," Detective Tode grinned. "Sorry, man, I left my hanky at home."

"Fuck you," Detective Frugg said, voice rough. "You don't get it."

"Fuck you, I don't get it. Of course I get it."

"You ain't got no kids," Detective Frugg replied, sucking on the cigarette. "I'm in there...y'know, thinking if something happened to my girls. And I do fifteen, twenty years, and she finds me..."

"Sirs," a guard coming down the hallway said, "you can't do that in--"

Detective Tode and Detective Frugg gave the guard the finger. The guard scowled but moved on.

Detective Frugg cleared his throat.

Detective Tode gave Detective Frugg a little shoulder-check. "Come on, man. Let's get you dried up."

"Yeah, all right," Detective Frugg said. "Shit, man."

"Yeah. Shit."

*** 

She heard the roar all the way in her private study. It startled the birds.

"Madame--" Sylvia said over the desk intercom.

"Yes, let him in," she said, taking her reading glasses away and checking her lipstick briefly in her hand mirror before hitting the buzzer again. "In fact, better have some tea sent up, if you will."

"Yes, madame."

Beast threw the doors open and blew into the room with his dark coat billowing behind him like a specter of death. Isolde arched an eyebrow at him in a manner that had been bringing men to their knees since 1936.

"Thirty," Beast roared. "Thousand. Dollars!"

Isolde spotted Ives lurking in the next room. She waved him off with a discreet flick of her fingers.

Beast slammed his hands on her desk.

"Thirty thousand dollars, Isolde!" he bellowed. He still did have that marvelous lung capacity after all, it appeared.

"I trust you have a point lurking somewhere in all of this?" Isolde asked, leaning towards him.

"I have to pay taxes!" he shouted.

"Oh, applesauce, dear," Isolde said. "I'll take care of that. I have the most wonderful accountant and he--"

Beast slammed her desk again.

"Do that one more time and you'll find yourself getting your face bashed against it," Isolde warned.

Beast stuck a finger at her nose.

"You paid me thirty thousand dollars," he snarled. "For two arias!"

"I did."

"I will not take your charity!" he shouted.

"It is an advance on a completed project," Isolde replied coolly. "I will have a complete opera out of you."

Beast flew away from her desk and paced the room. The birds puffed and fluttered nervously.

"What am I to do with thirty thousands dollars, Isolde?" he seethed. "What, precisely, do you think there is left for me to enjoy?"

"Nothing more extravagant than a roof and perhaps a little hot water," Isolde sneered. "You seem to be determined to keep yourself alive, by hook or by crook. Even though you clearly don't take any enjoyment in it. You might as well not freeze to death."

"I will freeze to death in my own house, bought with my own money, if it is my own will!" he roared.

Isolde shrugged. "Then do so. But I'm not taking the money back. And I'm paying you more, because I will have an opera out of you."

Beast raged silently, pacing back and forth across the room over he finally managed to pause at the window, shaking with the effort of standing still.

Sylvia came in with the tea and left it on Isolde's desk.

"Thank you, Sylvia," Isolde said. "Close the doors after you, please, and tell Ives that he can put the cricket bat down."

"Yes, madame."

Isolde poured Beast a cup of tea and set it aside before pouring herself one.

"I don't understand you," she said at last. "You don't want to live, but you can't make yourself die. So why not take money for good work?"

"This opera is not worth ten thousand dollars," Beast said. "It's not worth one hundred. If you want an opera out of me, say so and I'll do it for free."

"I want to pay you for your art," Isolde said. "That is, in fact, the sum and total of what it means to be a patron."

"I am not interested in money. Least of all yours."

"I think you would be a lot happier, Beastie, if you stopped trying to pretend you like being debased and miserable," Isolde replied. "I'm sure it must be terribly scary to think that you have some potential for comfort left, but I'm afraid it's true. I don't think it would hurt you to be a little less of a coward."

Beast stormed over and vibrated beside the desk. Isolde watched him for a moment.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"You'll never see it."

"That much worse than the phossy jaw?" Isolde wondered.

Beast snorted at her and picked up his teacup.

"Find a contractor," Isolde told him. "Fix the roof and the walls. You don't have to get the whole floor looking as good at the first storey, but you might manage to at least make it fit for human habitation."

"As opposed to now, when it's fit for...?"

"Absolutely nothing. Fix it and survive another year, since you can't seem to kill yourself. At least do it to keep that poor child and Enoch from freezing, if they love you well enough to visit you in spite of that horrible house."

Beast slugged back his tea.

"Isn't that a little hot?" Isolde asked.

"I'm cold," he replied.

"Hmm," she said. "How did you even get here?"

"I took the bus," he admitted.

Isolde shook her head. "Write me an opera."

"Don't send me any more money."

"Fine. Fix the roof. The rest will be paid on receipt of the piece."

"How much more?"

"You've gotten half."

He hissed, disgusted. "I'll donate it to charity."

"As long as your roof is fixed I hardly care what you do with the remainder," Isolde replied. "It's not begging. It's business."

"It's nepotism."

"Such is art, dear," Isolde replied. "It's not what you do, but who."

"Who you do?" Beast asked.

Isolde winked her eye.

"Oh, of course," Beast grumbled, and drank the rest of his tea.

***

"Tell me..." Herod said one morning.

Lorna looked up from her textbook. Her guest was sitting in the living room chair with a tea cup perched on his bony knee. Lorna still wasn't perfectly used to having Herod in the house. He looked a little strange in so much warm yellow sunlight.

Another interviewer had just left them be. Once she got over the initial terror of having such people in her home, Lorna found she kind of liked having reporters nearby. It was thrilling, and after all, the spotlight wasn’t precisely on her.

Beatrice would say she was an exhibitionist.

"What happened to that nice, nervous young man and his little brother?" Herod went on. His fingertips were idly tapping the arm of the chair. She thought he might be composing more of the opera. He had that look about him.

Lorna smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Wirt and Gregory? They're on vacation with their mother and father."

"Ah. How nice."

"Yes. I think they're skiing. Or, anyway, at a place where skiing could possibly happen. It remains to be seen if Wirt will venture to participate."

"Mm. I only ask because I think I need to have my chimney cleaned."

Lorna lifted her eyebrows. "Oh. Oh, yes."

"Now that the heat is off."

"Of course," Lorna said. "I can think of someone who might be willing to clean a chimney for a few dollars. He’s one of Gregory's little baseball teammates."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Maybe about eighty-five pounds? He stole Gregory's bike some weeks ago. Unfortunate stuff."

"Oh, my goodness. Then he's an outlaw."

"He certainly seems to think so."

"Well. Maybe you can see if he's willing to prove just how tough he can be. You can have at him with the steak mallet, before we fix anything substantial."

Lorna smiled. "Any particular day you'd like him to come and clean?"

"How about Friday?”

"All right. I can get him over, but Beatrice is taking me to dinner.  Maybe I can drop by later in the evening?"

"That's just fine. I have plans for him, anyway."

Lorna squinted at him. "Really?"

"Yes." Herod's voice sounded like it was smiling. "You'll see."

***

The question haunted Enoch’s mind for weeks. How did he want to do it?

It was difficult, now, when he wasn't motivated by rage. He'd had so many ideas for what to do with the groundskeeper. Still did, as it happened. But all those ideas were really more focused on killing the groundskeeper, not killing, such as it was.

More than anything, he wanted to feed Beast. He wanted to give him something precious. Beast was beautiful, fluid, unworldly, when he killed. Enoch wanted to share that with him, to perform that way for him. Beast deserved it. That was no doubt about that.

He wanted bring Beast lifeless children and feed him their tongues. He wanted to feel Beast's teeth scraping across his own raw bones. He wanted to worship him, bloody and bitten and down on his knees.

He needed to be worthy of his passion. He needed to be worthy of being the hand that slaughtered the meat that became Beast's blood. It was essential.

Maybe breaking the neck was the right way to go. It would be fast, and he could do it carefully, without having a tool to futz around with. He'd have more control and more connection. He would feel the instant the life left the child's body. The connection would sanctify it, he thought, and make it into the kind of sacrifice he wanted to give.

The trick would be to stay conscious of what he was doing. He could not make the child into a farm animal. That wouldn't do at all. Enoch had killed more than a few animals in his time. Knowing all Beast did, all he was, all his trust and friendship meant, Enoch couldn't possibly give him a dead hog.

At last, on a fine Tuesday morning, Beast asked him if he wouldn’t mind taking care of dinner that week. Of course, Enoch agreed.

‘Let me know what you need and I’ll have it for you,’ Beast texted him. ‘I’ll handle the ingredients.’

On Friday morning, Enoch called Beast and had a quiet conversation with him on his way to work. He went through the day in a bit of a fog, but despite broadsides from plenty of boards and committees demanding his time, he stuck by his rigid 5 o'clock Friday cut-off. He went home, changed his clothes, packed a small bag, and headed for 6 Edel Avenue.

Beast answered the door.

"Hello, Enoch," he said. Turtle was by his side, tense but quiet. "Come in. You're just in time."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Beast said, closing the door behind Enoch. He locked it and lead the way into the kitchen. "It isn't too terribly cold yet. We can have a fire soon enough."

Enoch hummed quietly and followed his host into the living room.

A grubby boy wearing a puffy winter coat was kneeling over the fireplace. He looked up when Enoch came into the room.

"Lucas, this is Mr. Barnes," Beast said coolly. Enoch smiled at the satiny slickness of his tone, before turning the expression onto the child, as if in greeting. "He's a friend."

"Hello," the boy said. "I'm almost done, Mr. Bethlehem."

"Thank you. You've done a very nice job. Let me go get your money. I think it was ten dollars?"

Beast floated away towards the kitchen and left Enoch alone with the child. Enoch pushed his hands into his pockets, the cold working its way down into his bones. He was going to be glad to have that fire going.

"Hello, Lucas," Enoch said. "Enjoying the snow?"

"No, sir," Lucas said. His nose was pink. "I'll be glad when it's spring."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Baseball season."

"Ah. Very good point. Well, best of luck to you."

"I don't need luck, sir. I'm the second-best on the team."

"Impressive," Enoch murmured.

Beast returned, casting Enoch a quick look. "Could you give it one more solid scrub, Lucas? I think I see a splotch or two left."

The boy frowned and looked at the hearth. "Where?"

"Enoch, I think your eyes are better than mine," Beast purred. "Do you see what I mean? Maybe you can point it out."

Enoch swallowed and walked to the fireplace, leaning down and peering in. "Oh, yes. Right there."

He pointed a finger at a portion of the chimney just a little higher than where the child had been most assiduously scrubbing.

Lucas scowled a little but turned to work on it.

Enoch glanced up at Beast.

Beast nodded to him, standing very tall and straight and still. He opened his hands, offering.

Enoch looked at the boy, at Beast, and swallowed. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, but he uncurled them and pulled them out. He put one on the mantlepiece and straightened up.

Beast tilted his head, watching Enoch. He darted his eyes from Enoch to the child in no uncertain way.

Enoch clenched his jaws and gripped the mantlepiece harder. He wanted to. He wanted to! Beast was watching, waiting, trusting him to provide. Trusting Enoch to honor him, to satisfy him--

The boy scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Beast watched him and watched Enoch, and at last he slowly exhaled. He wrapped his left arm around his ribs and rested his right hand on his opposite arm, as if hugging himself against the cold.

As if closing himself off.

Enoch's heart could've broken inside him. He felt his skin flush.

He could never be worthy of a place at Beast's table, if he couldn't give him this.

Enoch reached out and grabbed Lucas by the puffy coat. He pulled the child up against his chest and held him in a tight, one-armed bear hug, before fitting his other hand under the boy's jaw.

He pulled head around like he was pulling the starter line of a lawn mower.

_Ker-ack._

Enoch held the boy's body as it went limp. His muscles tensed with an almost electric sensation, for he'd felt the life fly out of the child's body with his bare hands.

He'd killed a human child. Ripped a soul out of its casing.

This was nothing like slaughtering a farm animal.

He stared at Beast, clutching the lifeless boy in his arms.

Beast stared back. He seemed surprised. He took a step forward, and then another, and closed the space between them. Coming for his offering.

Enoch had never been so proud. So scared.

Beast looked at the child. He put a gloved hand against the boy's cheek and tilted his head so that he could look at his face.

He looked at Enoch, cupping the child's cheek still.

"How do you feel?" Beast said softly. "Are you all right?"

"I believe so," Enoch said. He swallowed.

Beast took his glove off and reached for Enoch. He pressed his ice-cold fingers against Enoch's throat, just under his jaw.

"Your pulse is good. Pupils seem fine. You don't feel sick at all?"

"Not in the least," Enoch replied. He wanted to nuzzle against Beast's hand.

"You must tell me, if you feel even slightly ill," Beast said. He turned his attention on the boy again, removing his hand from Enoch's throat to stroke the boy's broken neck.

"Beautiful," Beast said softly. "Beautifully done, Enoch. I hope you won't find it insulting if I say you seem like a natural. I never would've thought this was your first..."

Enoch grinned hugely. "Thank you, Beast. You don't know what that means to me."

Beast hummed. "Put him on the floor, won't you? I want you to see him."

Enoch obliged him, carefully putting his kill at Beast's feet. He took a knee to do it, and stayed there, arranging the child nicely before looking up at Beast again.

Impassive, icy, refined Death looked over Enoch's work and nodded his head. He reached out and put his hand on Enoch's shoulder, pressing closer. His eyes were bright, pupils fathomless.

"It's done," Beast said softly. "That's all there is."

Enoch's mouth was watering. He swallowed.

"Aren't they small, like this?" Beast asked. "I can never quite understand it. I swear they shrink."

Enoch hummed a laugh and looked at the body.

Amazing, how this one death complicated everything. And yet, how much it simplified! There could be no question about menus, about starvation or satiation. They would be preserved. They would live.

It was simple for the child, now, too, because there would be no more fears, no more pains, no more joys too sharp to bear.

He would never have to know a fraction of life's horrors. He would be remade, and used, and used by someone who knew what they were doing.

Enoch felt no ardor, no passion for the body. The child was a child still, and his corpse was clean and small. It would have been repulsive, to sully the moment with crass lust. He was grateful.

Beast stroked his shoulder and Enoch arched into the touch, just a bit.

"All right?" Beast asked. "Stand up here with me. Get a better look."

Beast offered him his hand and Enoch took it, carefully pushing to his feet. Beast stepped closer to his side, their hips nearly touching, and they contemplated the corpse for a few long moments.

Enoch's hands were still warm, although his breath was a cold, solid mist in the air. He had to get Beast out of this house. This was too much to bear.

He put a hand low on Beast's back.

"What do you think?" he asked quietly.

Beast was quiet for a little while.

"I would never have dissuaded you," Beast said at last. "Not when your mind was so made up. But I wasn’t completely sure this was a good idea, when you suggested it. I almost wanted you to look at the child and decide it wasn't worth your time. I think of you as being a good man and I didn’t entirely want you to bring yourself down to my level."

Enoch frowned. "Beast, do you--"

"It was stupid, of course. Completely self-absorbed. I was thinking about myself so much more than I was thinking about you," Beast went on. He wrapped his arms around himself. "It’s just that my first was horrible. Painful, and ugly, and I debased myself in doing it, and I knew at the time that I had debased myself. You know, Lorna bludgeoned her first, too. She ate him raw, filthy and crying in a basement."

Beast looked at him. Enoch watched his glorious eyes, rapt.

"I didn't want that for you," Beast said quietly. "I knew it wasn’t going to be precisely like that, but I still didn't see how much different it could be. I didn’t really take into account what it would mean for you to be the one doing it. It's so blindingly obvious, now, that it would have to be so much different from anything else I could’ve imagined."

Beast's voice fell silent again, but Enoch didn't try to speak. Beast shifted his weight and leaned against him, a little. They looked down at Enoch's kill together.

"It was beautiful," Beast sighed at last, still examining the boy. "The way you kill is beautiful, Enoch. No suffering. No pain. No hesitation. And no remorse. You knew what you were doing, you know now, and you did it. And you let him die like a child. I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect, untouched corpse. He had no time to fear."

Enoch's knees were weak. He wanted to sink to the floor and touch his Beast, adore him, thank him for this.

Enoch had always wanted to give Beast things he'd take. And Beast would take this gift and know it was an offering. Beast deserved offerings. He deserved to know he had someone who could and would do for him, even though he could do for himself.

And Enoch had needed to know that he could and would do anything for Beast--and it was true. He could be a person who could walk in step with Beast. They could share this.

"I have two requests," Enoch said softly.

Beast looked him in the face. "Anything. Name it."

"First, I'd like it very much if you'd do something with his body," Enoch said. "That was you, wasn't it? The little boy in the graveyard? The skeleton, I mean."

Beast dropped his eyes and shifted his weight. "Oh, yes. How embarrassing. Yes, that was me. You must think I'm ridiculous, with all that playacting, and dragging you into it as an alibi..."

"No, not at all," Enoch replied. "I thought it was beautiful. And anyone who knew you couldn't mistake it as anything but your work. It's just that you've got everyone hoodwinked, or they'd have known there was a master at work."

Under his hand, Enoch felt Beast’s chuckle in his lungs before it met the air.

"How kind you are, Mr. Barnes. It would be my pleasure, to come up with something lovely to suit this corpse."

"Thank you. I leave it in your hands, although I'm happy to help in any way you may deem appropriate. I've just always loved that kind of thing, you see, and I think it would be perfect, coming from you."

Beast smiled at him. Enoch knew it.

"And your second request?" Beast asked.

Enoch licked his lips. "I want to cook dinner tonight."

Beast let out a peal of his strange laughter. "You ask everything of me, Enoch. Yes. You may of course cook dinner tonight. I'm thrilled that you feel up to it."

"Perhaps you can teach me to butcher, after dessert."

"It'd be my pleasure," Beast purred. "Is there anything I can do for you, between now and then?"

"No. You're to sit back and let me do for you," Enoch replied. "Although..."

Beast hummed. "Always a catch."

"You might point me in the direction of one of your cookbooks," Enoch said. "I think I want to feed you his tongue, first."

***

"Auntie Whispers?" Lorna called, as she stepped through the door and stepped out of her shoes and coat. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, dear," Auntie Whispers said. "In the kitchen."

Lorna followed her aunt's voice into the kitchen and took her apron from the door, looping it over her head. "It's so late, Auntie. What are you doing?"

"Making cookies, that's all," Auntie Whispers said. "I thought I might bring them to our friend in prison."

“Oh, that’s nice,” Lorna murmured. “I’m sure he’ll like them. Have you seen him, lately?”

“Just briefly, after he went in. I think he’s taking it hard.”

“Then he’ll be glad to see you again, when you visit him next.”

Auntie Whispers waved a hand at her and made a little scoffing noise, but she couldn’t hide a little smile. Lorna smiled herself and went to the sink. A mixing bowl was waiting, full of mucky water, and she rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub it.

"I'll work on that, dear," Auntie Whispers said.

"I don't mind," Lorna replied.

Auntie Whispers sipped her tea. “How is class?”

“It’s not bad. I’ve been talking to some of the other students. One of them is training to be a phlebotomist, and she says that it’s not a long degree to get. You just have to be unsqueamish.”

“...I think I would describe you that way, yes,” Auntie Whispers allowed. “You’re looking awfully well, dear.”

Lorna shifted her weight.

“Herod made dinner,” she said softly.

Auntie Whispers sighed heavily. “I thought the McHales were in some kind of crisis. Lorna...did you happen to…?”

“No, Auntie,” Lorna lied, turning her head to look at her aunt. “I told you I wouldn’t, and I haven’t. I haven’t killed a thing but squirrels since--since probably October.”

Auntie Whispers gave Lorna a pained look. “...yes. I know. I’m sorry.”

Lorna turned her head away. She swallowed.

"Ah, but there is something we should talk about,” Auntie Whispers said. “I finally heard back from the lawyers, you know. About your Aunt Adelaide's will."

"Oh.” Lorna rinsed the bowl and put it in the drying rack before she turned to face her aunt, concerned. “It was a mess, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t tidy,” Auntie Whispers said. “You should know that she left you some things.”

“What? Me? Why?” Lorna frowned. “Auntie Adelaide hated me.”

“She didn’t hate you, dear,” Auntie Whispers said. Her lip quivered.

Lorna stared at her aunt.

“Auntie Whispers,” Lorna said softly, “has Auntie Adelaide done something cruel?”

“You are the only family beneficiary, dear,” Auntie Whispers replied. Her eyes were gleaming but she had a smile fixed on her mouth. “The liquid assets are yours. She had a safety deposit box, and kept some of your mother’s jewelry...and our mother’s jewelry, and…”

Lorna covered her mouth with her hands and hurled herself at her aunt, wrapping her arms tight around her. Auntie Whispers heaved a sob.

“It’s all right, dear, it’s all right,” Auntie Whispers insisted. Lorna could feel her bosom hitch and shift against her body.

“It’s yours,” Lorna said. “You know I won't take it, don't you? Because it's really yours.”

“I don’t need money, dearest,” Auntie Whispers gasped. Lorna drew away and pushed her aunt towards one of the kitchen chairs. Auntie Whispers sat and wheezed as Lorna rooted around in her massive purse and produced her inhaler.

Auntie Whispers puffed it and Lorna fetched her mug of tea from the counter. She brought it over and leaned against her aunt, hugging her with one arm.

“I don’t need any money,” Auntie Whispers repeated. “It’s...just that I was her next of kin. She wasn’t trustworthy, but I never hated her.”

“It’s a cruel thing to do,” Lorna insisted. “It’s awful of her.”

“But you, my dear,” Auntie Whispers said. She gave Lorna a tremulous smile and reached up to take one of her hands. “It’s good news for you.”

“Oh, I don’t want to know, Auntie. I don’t even want it, when it’s something she did to be awful to you…”

“It’s only incidentally cruel, really. She only picked you because she thought that leaving the money to you would hurt me more than it would make me happy.” Auntie Whispers squeezed her hand. “I don’t think she ever got her head around just how much I love you.”

Lorna blinked and tried to push away the lump in her throat. “How much is it, Auntie?”

Auntie Whispers told her.

Lorna made her repeat it, and after she did, Lorna sat down with a thump.

“Oh, dear,” Lorna said softly.

“We have to do a little work with the lawyers, of course. And it’s still two years until you reach your majority.”

“I want to split it evenly,” Lorna said. “Right down the middle. Half for each of us.”

Auntie Whispers smiled at her. Her expression was just a little naughty. “Oh, my Lorna...please keep it all. You’d be abiding by both of your aunts’ wishes, if you did.”

Lorna huffed a slightly miserable laugh.

“And I will pay for the rest of your education,” Auntie Whispers said. “I promised you I would, and so I shall.”

“Oh, Auntie, no--”

“I will. Unless you want the responsibility,” Auntie Whispers said. She cleared her throat. “I know, of course, that this means you don’t depend on me, quite so much. I’m afraid you won’t have much need of me at all.”

“Auntie, you’re my family,” Lorna replied. “I’ll always need you for that, if nothing more.”

Auntie Whispers smiled at her.

“But my rules won’t necessarily be your rules,” Auntie Whispers said.

Lorna looked down at her hands and fidgeted a little with her fingertips.

“I think you’ve been doing very well,” Auntie Whispers added. “I would be very pleased if you managed to stay on it.”

Lorna pinched her fingertips hard.

“I’ll end up lying to you,” Lorna said.

Auntie Whispers nodded her head. “I know. I imagine you already have, at some point."

"I don't like doing it."

Auntie Whispers smiled.

"You're a good girl, Lorna," she said. "Let's have a bite to eat."

***

Well, Fred had known many a skirt in his time, and more than a few ladies, even, and especially in the kind of business it was now his occupation to undertake. He could not rightly say, however, that he had ever found himself in the company of a true dame.

No doubt about it, though. Isolde Nymbostratus was a dame.

If he thought he could get past that lunatic with the fire poker, Fred would've trotted down to Mrs. Nymbostratus' house and served her a bill that would make a man's eyes cross. And she would've poisoned the ink she wrote the check with, he expected.

But Fred was a man of few and simple values, it happened, and one of those values was his own skin. Mrs. Nymbostratus was far more likely to kill him in cold blood than pay for his silence.

Not so with these political types. You knew where you stood with a quiet man with a lot to lose and a few very, very dirty little secrets.

Mr. Enoch Barnes was a man of clear habits and routines, on the whole, and Fred watched him for a good long while before knowing what he wanted to do. Mr. Barnes and Mr. Bethlehem were close, he concluded, but that was chump change in the long run. No sport to be had in that kind of thing.

No, when it came to Mr. Barnes, the bank was not going to be had in any shenanigans occurring within Mr. Bethlehem's bedroom, but in the dread that he would summarily be ejected from the house wholesale. (And thence, of course, ejected from office, township, and pending some info regarding the statute of limitations, very probably the wide and open sky for somewhere between thirty to life. But all that could come later, when the immediate necessity of keeping a loved one in the dark was no longer impressing itself upon Mr. Barnes' consciousness.)

Fred ambled up the snowy walk around six thirty in the afternoon on a fine Friday in Februrary. It would be Valentine's Day tomorrow, and that had a kind of pleasant cosmic significance that Fred thoroughly enjoyed.

He straightened his tie, rang the bell, and put on his most charming smile.

Endicott had cut him loose. It was time to get paid.


	15. The Garden

"Could you answer the door, Enoch?" Beast asked. "I think the roast needs a little more attention."

"Of course," Enoch said. He put his wine glass down and let himself watch Beast at the oven, just for a moment. It really was a stunningly flattering apron, he thought.

He made his way to the door and opened it. “Good evening?”

A man he'd never seen before was standing on the porch. His smile was full of big teeth.

"How do you do, sir," the man said, already walking forward. "Mind if I step in? It's cold as hell out here."

"I do mind," Enoch said, standing in the way. "May I help you?"

"Yes, sir, you can. And I can help you!”

“Then I’m at your service.”

“Oh, good. Nice to meet a real gent, when you can.” The man’s smile pulled his lips open further and more teeth were unveiled. “Tell me. You ever meet anyone by the name of Angel?"

Enoch got the distinct impression he was being mocked. “I don’t believe I have.”

“No? Really? No Angels at all?”

"If this is a religious matter, or some kind of prank--"

"No prank, sir. You must not remember him, not that I really blame you. It was ages ago when you met, but I sort of figured you must've been pretty close. Knew each other intimately, if you know what I mean." The man gave him an even bigger smile. "Guess Angel must've been a little under my height, skinny as a rake, kinda tattooed...fond of capital letters?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, you know, E, LSD, PCP. Here, I've got a picture or two, to jog your memory."

The man reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out and envelope. He produced an image of a dead young man.

Enoch frowned at the picture. Not at all his kind of thing, really.

"You really don't remember him?" the man asked, putting the image back into his coat. "Goodness gracious. I'm going to start thinking you're not much of gentleman to your dates, Mr. Barnes, if you can't even remember the ones who get found dead in your car."

Enoch's blood went cold.

"But I guess it has been awhile since you had to pay for it, hasn't it?" the man said. "Although hey, what do I know? Maybe you and Mr. Bethlehem have an understanding, too. He strikes me as the kind of guy who prefers to work off his feet."

"I think you'd better come inside," Enoch said softly, opening the door a little wider. "We can talk in the music room."

"That's hospitable of you! Let me just say hi to Mr. Bethlehem. We understand each other, you see, and maybe he remembers Angel."

"No," Enoch said. He wouldn't drag Beast into this, not for anything. "You'll deal with me, alone."

"Oh, if you insist. Very well. Lead on, MacDuff."

Enoch led the man into the music room and closed the door behind him. In the kitchen, he could still hear the sounds of Beast working and the faint noise of the radio.

He had nothing to fear from Beast. Beast knew it all and didn't mind, even found it reassuring. But Pottsfield… Pottsfield couldn’t know.

It had to be contained.

"Where are you getting this ridiculous story from?" Enoch asked.

The man took himself around the music room, smiling and touching Beast's piano and furniture. Enoch's skin creeped. "Couldn't tell you that, Mr. Barnes! That's just unprofessional, you know. Breach of some kind of ethics or another, I'm sure."

"What an uniquely moral perspective for a blackmailer to take."

"Do you think so? That cuts deep, coming from the man who had a boy prostitute dead in his car twenty years ago," the man replied. "How old was Angel, anyway? You were only just legal yourself, I guess, but still. How sure were you that he was eighteen? Could've been statch, my friend, on top of murder. Chilling thought, isn’t it?"

Enoch felt his temper rise and battened it back down. "This is a nonsensical accusation, then, if your information is all hearsay."

"And yet here I am in Mr. Bethlehem's house, talking to you about it," the man said. "Seem to be lending me the legitimacy of concern, Mr. Barnes. I'm beginning to wonder if you are a decent politician, after all."

"What, precisely, am I being threatened with?"

"Oh, it's not a threat!” the man said, covering his chest with his hand. “Tsk tsk. Mr. Barnes, you've got a suspicious mind. I'm here to help. I want to make sure this stays a secret between the two of us, and I think I'm the best man alive for the job. I want you to hire me, you see."

"Of course."

"My fee isn't exorbitant. Just a monthly payment, something small and sweet. A man at your state of life, I figure you can see your way clear to $3,000 a month, couldn't you? Plus bonuses for good work, of course."

"Absolutely not. I refuse to be blackmailed."

"Hmmm,” the man said, tilting his head. He tapped his chin. “No. No, I don't like it. I don't think you're thinking clearly, Mr. Barnes. A man in your position has so much to lose! You do just love your work, don't you? Man of the church. Respected -- why, I might even say ‘loved’ by your little community. You’ve got a lot going for you!”

Enoch crossed his arms.

The man gave him a saucy smile and held up his hands, gesturing at the house. “And sure, this place isn't exactly the Bellagio, but I bet you'd be sorry to have the man of the house know just what dirty little things you get up to."

Enoch scowled.

"Him being so sensitive, after all, and just out of a nasty court case," the man added. "Wonder what I'd find, if I went digging for him, too."

"I don't like the way you talk about Beast," Enoch said coldly.

"Cute nickname! Think I might try it on him. Kinda suits, don’t you think?” The man grinned at him. “What do you say, Mr. Barnes? Have I got the job? Or should we see how Mr. Bethlehem takes the news?"

From the hall, Beast's voice rose up and wafted through the air. "Enoch?"

Enoch stared the man down. He broke into a toothy grin and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Bethlehem, come on in!" the man cried. "We were just talking about you."

Beast opened the door to the music room and stepped inside. His eyes narrowed.

"Mr. Barnes let me in," the man said. "We go way back, him and me, and I would've said hi, but he drew me into a conversation about old times. You know how that goes. Something smells good, by the way. What’s for dinner?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave," Beast said to the man. "I've made it clear that you are not welcome on my property. I won't let you take advantage of Mr. Barnes' good manners."

"He's got good manners, huh? That's news to me. You should've known him in the old days, Mr. Bethlehem. I think you'd've been surprised by just how rough he could be."

"Leave, Mr. Fred," Beast said coldly.

"What? But we haven't had dinner yet! Oh, well. What do you say, Mr. Barnes? How about I take my pay and leave?"

Beast looked at him. "You employ this man?"

"This man," Enoch said slowly, "is offering to be my secret-keeper."

Beast stood very, very still. He stared at Enoch, eyes wide.

"Am I meant to understand that you are being blackmailed?" Beast asked softly.

"Of course not!" Fred objected. He met Enoch's eyes and held his gaze, talking through that big, toothy smile. "I'm just interested in joining Mr. Barnes' cabinet. Isn't that right?"

"Enoch," Beast said, walking towards them. Enoch recognized his voice as the persona of the elderly recluse and frowned a little. "Is this something you think I should know?"

"It's absolutely -- "

"Oh, I don't know, boss," Fred said. He reached for the coat pocket containing the pictures. "Think about it, now. Maybe it's good for him to know! It’d clear the air."

Enoch stayed silent. Fred waited a moment or two, before he drew out the envelope and offered it to Beast.

"All right, if you insist. Take a look. It's just one of Mr. Barnes' exes. I guess tastes change over time, don't they?"

Beast took the envelope and opened it. He peeped at its contents.

His breath hitched and he shoved it back into Fred's hands, half-open. Beast wrapped his arms around himself and turned his back to Enoch.

"Oh, Enoch," he said softly. He squeezed himself tight and dropped his arms, sinking a hand into his pocket. “I can’t believe…”

Fred turned to look at Enoch. His smile was solicitous and cruel.

"You two have a lot to talk about, I bet. Let’s talk business later. I'll see you at Pottsfield's next coffee hour, Mr. Barnes."

Fred began to move, but Beast held up a hand to stop him. Curious, Fred paused.

"Enoch," Beast said softly. "I can't believe -- "

Enoch furrowed his brow, bewildered. Beast knew it all. What was he doing?

Fred turned his attention on Enoch, amused.

" -- that you would allow something so utterly disgusting -- "

Beast's hand emerged from his pocket.

His hand held a coil of silver.

" -- so completely repulsive -- "

Beast lunged, seizing Fred from behind. The coil wrapped around Fred's neck and he lurched, hands flying up to claw at his throat.

" --into my house!" Beast snarled. He dragged the intruder with him, the cord gouging deeply into the flesh and muscle of Fred’s neck.

Enoch's eyes widened in his head and he took a step back.

Beast pulled Fred in front of him and kicked the back of his legs. Beast moved with him, holding him up by the neck as he forced him to kneel.

"Get on your dirty fucking knees," Beast hissed. He held Fred there for a few moments, letting him thrash and fight. Fred's eyes bulged out of their sockets.

"You filthy, degenerate parasite," Beast growled. "You disgusting worm! You come in my house -- _in my house_ \-- and you presume to threaten him?"

Fred's eyes rolled back in his head. His face was turning red. He tried to reach back for Beast.

Beast dropped the cord and seized the back of Fred's head by the hair. He lunged forward his with whole body, slamming Fred's face nose-first onto the hardwood floor.

Beast slammed him again and, and the sounds grew wetter with every strike. He kneeled beside his victim, dragging him up just far enough to break a new part of his face against the floor.

Fred was whimpering and flailing his arms.

Beast straddled Fred's back and ground his broken face into the floor. After a few horrible seconds, he dragged Fred up by the hair, leaving him choking on his own blood and gurgling in the open air.

Enoch took one look and gasped for breath.

Fred's face was mutilated and battered, nose crushed, cheekbones shattered, teeth missing. Beast leaned over his shoulder, so close that his lips could've touched Fred's ear but for the mask.

"Do you have any idea what you are?” Beast hissed. “You don't deserve to look at him, and you think you can threaten him?”

Fred gurgled and clawed backwards.

“Go on,” Beast purred. “Look at him. He’s the last thing you’ll ever see, so take your time. Take a nice, long look. I'm patient, and he's so beautiful. I'll give you a moment to look at him."

Enoch's eyes widened, but a moment was all Beast allowed.

"You!" he snarled, beating Fred's face into the floor. It was harder, this time. Enoch could hear the difference. Beast picked Fred up and threw him to the ground, and Enoch distinctly heard the crunches and the squelches. "Don't! Touch! Him!"

Fred had found the breath to cry, sobs wracking his body. Beast took hold of the silver cord once more and pulled him back at a cruel angle. He yanked either side of the line tight and held Fred half-upright, his throat nightmarishly constricted.

Enoch covered his mouth with a hand. Fred's face was nothing but a mottled, pulpy mass awash in blood. Beast had left a smear of his face on the floor, and one of his eyes was missing, burst from its socket and pulverized on the nerve by Beast's beating. His nose was gone. He tried to breathe through a mouth with missing and dangling teeth, blood gurgling out and no air coming in.

Beast held him there, breaking him. Fred couldn't thrash anymore.

"You don't deserve to be on his plate," Beast snarled.

Enoch watched, heart hammering, as Beast held his victim that upright for almost a whole minute.

When it was clear that the life had flown, Beast released him. Fred’s body thumped to the floor and Beast sat on his corpse, panting for breath.

Enoch only just managed not to come from the sight of it. He reached out a trembling hand and braced himself on a nearby chair.

At last, Beast sat back from his kill and unwound the piano wire from around Fred's neck. He folded it and tucked it back into his pocket, before pulling off his gloves and his headdress and running a hand through his hair, as if to settle it.

"Mm,” Beast said quietly.

Enoch lurched forward and offered his hand.

Beast looked up at him and smiled behind his mask. He set his hand in Enoch's and let Enoch pull him to his feet.

"Thank you," Beast said, shifting his weight a little and stretching his bare fingers. "Not so humane now, am I? How embarrassing. But I'm afraid he made me a little angry."

Enoch tried not to laugh, certain he was a little hysterical. He was harder and hotter than he thought he'd ever been.

Beast nudged the body with the tip of his shoe.

"Tch! And look at the stain on the hardwood. Awful. Perhaps I should take Isolde’s rifle after all. I'm less likely to cause such mess, that way."

"Beast -- " Enoch said, breathless.

Beast's head snapped up and he looked at Enoch's face.

"Oh, Lord. Yes. I know," Beast said tenderly. He reached for Enoch, hands settling on his shoulder and chest and guiding him towards a chair. "This was a little much. You'd better sit down. I'll fix you a drink. I think we'll need some of Isolde's help, now that I mention it, and I'd better call Lorna, too."

"Beast -- " Enoch tried again.

"Sit down. I'll be right back."

Enoch was sentenced to sit in one of the music room chairs, ogling the man Beast had killed for him and trying to conceal his erection.

After a moment or two, Beast appeared at his side and put a glass of brandy in his hand. “Are you all right?”

"I really think I should be the one making you a drink," Enoch remarked weakly. "You're the one who deserves it."

"Oh, no, my dear," Beast replied. "I'm not the one who had to watch. I’ll just be downstairs, using the telephone. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Beast petted a hand across his shoulder and disappeared into the basement. Enoch writhed in his seat for a few moments, staring at the corpse and downing the brandy in a few swallows.

The front door opened and shut, and Enoch sat up straighter. Lorna came trotting into the room and stared at the scene, her dark eyes wide.

“Good heavens,” she said softly. She glanced up at Enoch. “What happened?”

Enoch cleared his throat, not sure what would pop out of his mouth if he tried to speak.

Lorna’s clever eyes darted up and down his body and he gave her a brief, annoyed look. Her response was an expression of sublime innocence.

“That,” Enoch nodded his head at the corpse, “is a former blackmailer. I believe him to have followed me here. Beast took...considerable exception to him attempting to peddle his wares under Beast’s own roof.”

“And expressed it eloquently, as always,” Lorna laughed. “And not just by strangling him, it seems to me.”

“And bludgeoning him,” Enoch added. “Against the floor. With his hands.”

“For you,” Lorna observed.

Enoch drank from the dry glass.

“How exciting,” Lorna crooned. Her expression was absolutely wicked.

Enoch made a noise.

Lorna rolled the body over with a few delicate pushes of her shoe and hummed. “Oosh. He isn’t pretty anymore, is he?”

Enoch couldn’t look.

He couldn’t not look.

Lorna was very wrong. Beast had made him surpassing pretty.

“Ah, Lorna,” Beast said, coming in from the dining room. “Good evening. That was quick. Coffee?”

“No, thank you. I think you have a little smear on your floor, Herod.”

“That I do.”

"He’ll need to be moved.”

"Obviously," Beast agreed. "But I won't eat him."

Enoch watched him begin to pace around the corpse. He wanted to talk to him. He had to talk to him.

"Well, where will you take him?" Lorna said.  She looked down at the body like an art student contemplating a blop of clay. "Perhaps just the city dump? Or out in a cornfield? It's cold, and the thaw will be on our side in a few months."

"We'll cut off his hands," Beast said. "I want to pull his tongue out through a hole in his throat. Break the rest of his teeth. I want to cleave his skull open and put his brain in his mouth."

"Could put his cock in his brain cavity," Lorna suggested, rubbing her fingers over her lips.

"I don't credit him with even that much thought. And I'll take his heart out."

"If he’s a blackmailer, that’ll depend on whether you can find it. What about the pictures?"

Beast crouched down by the body like a great, dark carrion bird over its prey. He fished the envelope out of the dead man’s jacket. He shuffled it around and neatly closed it, passing it to Enoch.

Enoch took it.

"Isolde has offered her invaluable assistance in cleaning up," Beast said, standing up. “When she’s done with it, they’ll be lucky to find copper wiring in his place of residence. That's well in hand."

"Oh. Good."

Beast nodded to himself and looked over at Enoch, who had not said anything in many minutes. Beast tilted his head and took a few steps forward.

"Are you all right, Enoch?" Beast asked gently. "I know that was...indecent. Would it be wise for you to be out of the house for a little while?"

"I'm fine," Enoch said. "I'll help you."

"It really isn’t -- "

"I want to help you," Enoch insisted, smiling. He had to get Beast alone. This was a wonderful, wonderful thing. A miracle.

Beast smiled back at him. "Lorna. While we’re out, could you please watch the house? And Turtle, of course. I'm afraid I can't take him with us, for this."

"Sure," Lorna said. "I'll be here."

"Thank you," Beast hummed. "Let me just get the tarp..."

Lorna helped Beast strip the body naked and Beast performed his alternations right there on the floor, pale hands diving inside Fred and coming back out smeared in sticky gore. The room was just cold enough that Fred's corpse steamed when Beast got it open, and they had to shoo Turtle away once or twice.

They wrapped it in the tarp and Enoch took a few deep breathes before he rose from his seat, decent enough to stand. He picked the body up.

Beast huffed his amusement. "Thank you, Enoch. You’re always a perfect gentleman. Let me wash up and dress."

Enoch smiled at him. He was distractingly beautiful, with his hands all red.

When Beast returned with his hat and fresh gloves, Lorna put Fred’s ring of keys into Beast’s hand and he and Enoch set off down the dark front steps. They paused together on the bricks before walking out onto the street.

It was cold. Above their heads, the sky was mottled with an orange glow from the city lights. If they’d been in the country, they might’ve seen the stars.

Enoch’s breath crystallized on the air and he glanced down at Beast.

“Where do you want to put him?” Enoch asked.

“I’m not sure. I suppose we could put him anywhere.” Beast looked up at the sky. “He’s your blackmailer, Enoch. Do you have any strong feelings?”

Enoch wet his lips and shifted his burden.

“Would it make things awkward for you, if we put him in the woods?” he asked.

Beast titled his head a little and hummed.

“No, I think we’ll be all right,” Beast agreed. “I like it, actually. It’s a nice touch. Do you mind driving?”

“Not at all.”

“Come along, then. I think I recognize his car.”

They got it right on the second try and put the tarped lump into the trunk. Bidding Enoch wait a moment, Beast disappeared around the side of his house and returned with a hefty coil of rope, which he stowed in the backseat. Enoch held the door open for Beast and let him slip in, before rounding the vehicle and entering from the driver’s side.

“I know a nice spot, good and deep in the trees,” Beast said. “Almost a mile away. I think that will do nicely, and we can have a pleasant walk back.”

“You just tell me where to turn.”

“May I put on the radio?”

“Of course.”

Beast set it to a classical station as Enoch pulled away from the curb.

As they passed down the dark streets, Enoch tried to listen to the radio, but it was all in vain. His mind was consumed with one single thought: Beast had killed for him.  Beast had killed to protect him. To repay an insult given to him.

And it had been so beautiful. So unfathomably erotic. Enoch had never seen Beast like that -- never really imagined he could be so vicious.

Mr. Hymann’s death had been glorious, too, but this was night and day. How could it be even comparable, when for Mr. Hymann, Beast had presided as impersonal Death? Beast had been as innocent and as gentle as a butcher, then, only handling the cut _du jour_.

But this time, Beast had been enraged for him. Had murdered for him.

Enoch shifted in his seat, trying to keep his mind on the road. How messy Beast had been! It was so thrilling. He knew that the sight of Mr. Fred’s no-longer-face would never be far from his mind. His cock took a renewed interest just at the thought of it, and he could hardly stand to listen to Beast quietly telling him to take a left.

And Beast’s voice! The things Beast had said!

Enoch grinned to himself, glad of the darkness as he felt an expression of almost imbecilic delight settle across his face. But how could he care about what he looked like, now? How could he ever care again?

“Beautiful,” Beast had said. To be considered beautiful by beauty itself!

Beast led him deeper and deeper into the woods, until they were jouncing across a gravel road. At last the road itself ended and the woods stretched out from the edge of the path, dark and creaking in the cold.

Enoch turned off the car and turned to Beast with a smile.

They had to get rid of Fred’s corpse. Enoch wanted to be alone with Beast. He had to be.

“Ready?” Beast asked.

“Absolutely,” Enoch agreed. “Let me get your parcel.”

They took the rope and the tarped lump out of the car, and Beast carefully led the way beyond the tree line. Out here, the moon was a little clearer, and Enoch’s eyes would have a chance to adjust to the night.

“Follow me,” Beast said softly.

“I’m right behind you.”

Enoch carried Mr. Fred into the dark. Beast passed before him, silent but for the occasional touch of his foot on some unseen stick or thin sliver of ice. They wove their way through the trees, brushing past frozen roots and sparse grass. The thin snow melted beneath their footsteps, pressed to the sleeping earth.

Beast passed one tree and another, occasionally brushing his hand across the bark and moving still onward. Enoch was squinting, eager for his eyes to finally adjust to the night, when he felt a hand reach for him out of the darkness.

“Here is just fine,” Beast breathed. “How would you like him, Enoch? Upright or on his back?”

Enoch shuddered. Oh, Beast…

“What’s less trouble for you?” he asked.

“That’s not important. I’m happy to do it either way. We have the rope, after all…”

“Then let’s put him up,” Enoch agreed.

Beast hitched the rope off of his shoulder and together they harnessed Mr. Fred’s naked body, crossing rope around his chest in a pleasing pattern of Beast’s devising. That accomplished, Enoch threw the line over the branches of the tree and began to hoist, before passing the lines to Beast and helping him bind Mr. Fred’s ankles to the tree trunk. They hitched up his elbows and paused to take a look at the project.

“Arms all the way out, do you think?” Enoch suggested, as they stood before the tree, contemplating the body.

“No, no,” Beast said, reaching out and adjusting Mr. Fred’s tongue. It hung down from the man’s throat, where Beast had reached in and pulled it out. “The iconography would be all wrong. The handlessness is the thing to focus on.”

“Why did you cut off his hands, by the way?”

“Fingerprints,” Beast said, twitching the ropes here and there. “I want him anonymous, except perhaps for the car. Anonymous and...helpless. I must’ve been thinking of Lavinia.”

“We can fix the car, you know,” Enoch said. “Siphon a little gas and burn it.”

Beast hummed a small chuckle. “You raise an excellent point. We’ll have to be quick about it, but perhaps a burning car is the better part of valor. My initial thought had been to just leave it here, engine running, with the lights on and the doors open.”

“Mmmm, how artful,” Enoch murmured. “It would have almost an Edward Hopper sort of feel to it.”

Beast chuckled. “Well, perhaps we’ll save that for the next time someone tries to blackmail you. I think you’re right about us getting rid of as much evidence as possible. We’ll take one of the paths back, so our scent isn’t picked up by dogs.”

“Aren’t you and Turtle all over these woods, anyway?”

“Oh, yes. But the principle of the thing, Mr. Barnes.”

“Ah, of course.”

Beast stepped back and admired his handiwork a little. He leaned against Enoch, and after a moment Enoch wrapped an arm around him.

“Handlessness,” Beast mused. “You know, I think I like them just hanging down.”

“I do, too,” Enoch agreed. He rubbed his thumb against Beast’s arm.

“Then let’s leave it as it is. An artist knows when to stop.”

Enoch nodded and smiled as Beast shifted away, standing up straight. “Back home?”

“If you please,” Beast murmured. “That roast sounds just perfect right about now.  It's a cold night.”

Together, they traced their way back to the road. Beast rolled down the back window and got a stone to smash the rear windshield as Enoch siphoned off a little gas and drenched his handkerchief in it.

He tossed the handkerchief into the backseat and handed Beast his book of matches.

Beast lit a match and tossed it into the car.  

They just watched the handkerchief light before they took off running. They didn't stop until halfway down the street. Beast seized him by the arms and pulled him into the woods along a deer path, and Enoch followed him, sprinting for almost a half mile, until they heard the explosion behind them.

They ran until Beast finally slowed and stopped, coughing a little, and Enoch put a hand on his back.

Beast was giggling.

“All right?” Enoch asked, grinning broadly.

“Oh yes,” Beast wheezed. “I feel like a schoolboy, honestly. That was very naughty of us.”

“Mm-hm. Poor Detectives Frugg and Tode.”

“Poor dears,” Beast agreed.

Enoch offered his arm and Beast slipped his hand into the crook of Enoch’s elbow. He was so small and spindly against the fleshy folds of Enoch’s body, and Enoch felt a sudden rush of adoration for him.

They walked together in silence for a few more minutes, until they left the coverage of the woods behind and found themselves on familiar neighborhood streets. They passed together beneath the street lamps, looking into curtainless windows.

“Beast?” Enoch asked at last.

“Hmm?”

“About this evening.”

Beast turned his head and looked at him as they walked down the street together. “Yes?”

“You were...vicious, with Mr. Fred.”

Beast stiffened beside him.

“Yes, I am aware,” Beast said. “I apologize for that. It must’ve been very ugly to watch. I’m afraid I have no excuse. I just lost my temper.”

“Oh, no,” Enoch said, covering Beast’s hand with his fingers. “No, please don’t think I disapprove. It was incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

“...do you really think so?” Beast asked, looking up at him. His colorless eyes were heart-stopping in the street lights. “Still waters run deep, Mr. Barnes.”

“Yes, they do. Beast. You were almost unhinged. Like a wild animal.” Enoch halted their slow pace and turned to face Beast completely. "But you said a thing or two that I just can’t get off my mind."

Beast tensed beside him. "Such as?"

"You told Mr. Fred that I was beautiful," Enoch said, a grin spreading across his face. His heart raced inside him. "I believe I'm quoting you directly, there."

Beast waved a hand and shifted as if to walk ahead. Enoch held him. "Yes, perhaps I said something like that. I mean, you can hardly be unaware that you're an attractive man. Surely you're not offended that I didn't say 'handsome'?"

"No, nothing of the sort," Enoch said. "I don’t mean for this to seem like vanity on my part. I only mention it because you seemed to be making a point that transcended mere aesthetic considerations."

"There is nothing 'mere' about aesthetics, Enoch -- "

"Do you love me?" Enoch asked.

Beast froze. His eyes flashed in the dark, to Enoch and immediately away. "Of course I do. You're one of my dearest friends and I -- "

"Beast," Enoch said, as gently as he could, considering his state of excitement.

Beast quivered for a moment before going perfectly, perfectly still.

"Please don't be cruel, Enoch," he said quietly. "I know it's... funny, but please don't be cruel. You never would've known, except for this. I would never have said anything. And if you'll only forget one moment, you'll never see it again."

"I want to see it every day for the rest of my life," Enoch breathed.

"Fine," Beast croaked. "Then enjoy it, for what little boost such a… stupid mistake could be to your ego. But please. I ask you out of friendship, please -- "

"Beast, I adore you."

Beast took in a shaky breath.

"Please, don't be cruel," he repeated, more weakly than before.

Enoch clicked his tongue and reached for Beast's hands. Beast let him take them, but he was tight with tension, and his hands trembled in Enoch's grasp.

"I adore you," Enoch said, lifting Beast’s left hand to his mouth and kissing him through the glove. "I love you, Beast. I treasure you. You are the most exquisite, the most beautiful man I have ever -- "

"Enoch!" Beast snapped. His voice broke and he pulled his hands away. Enoch let him go. "Don't -- this isn't funny! There's nothing you can get from me, sadist! I have no new pain to give you!"

"Beast," Enoch insisted. "I am desperately in love with you. I've never loved anyone more. And everyone knows it. Lorna, Isolde, Miss Clara… all of Pottsfield knows, and your groundskeeper most certainly knew it. You're the only one who doesn't seem to notice."

Beast's back was up.

"You don't even know what you're talking about," he snarled. “You can’t love me. You could never love me! You’re a good man, and you even hardly know what kind of thing I am!”

“Of course I know. You’re a nightmare, Beast, and you’re the most brilliant artist I’ve ever seen, and you're the man I love. And if I don’t know everything about you yet, I promise that I only want to know more. Every detail.”

Beast emitted a wordless snarl and clenched his hands. “You -- e-even if you’re not mocking me, you don’t know what you’re talking about! There is nothing beautiful here!”

"Show me," Enoch said. "Show me and I'll prove it. Let me see your scars, Beast. You don't repulse me. You never could."

Beast growled and reached for his mask.

"Say that now!" he snapped, and pulled the mask away.

Enoch forced himself not to gasp, but his eyes widened. The light from the streetlamps almost obscured more than they illuminated, and in a spiteless flick of his head, Beast craned his neck and exposed himself to the light.

His eyes were furious, and heartbroken.

"Take a good look," he said. His voice creaked. Enoch watched his lips move with his words, amazed to see it. "Take a very good, long look, and try to tell me that again."

Enoch took him in, examining him like an icon. His nose, his cheeks, the very veins. His mouth, his skin, the bones of his skull, so sharp and stark and pronounced. He was so terribly gaunt, so impossibly emaciated, a corpse walking. His unholy, living eyes bored into Enoch, staring out of the long-lost ruins of a human face twisted in despair and humiliation.

"Tell me that again," Beast rasped.  "I dare you."

Enoch reached out and cupped Beast's jaw. Beast's skin was cold to his touch and his expression seemed stunned as Enoch touched him with his bare hands, fingers brushing over a high, sweeping cheekbone and over to his ear. Enoch held him and leaned close, curling over him as they stood under the light.

"I love you," Enoch said. He kissed Beast's left cheek and felt the shaky inhalation of his breath. Beast seized his wrist but did not move Enoch's hand away from his face.

"You're beautiful," Enoch said. He kissed Beast's forehead and the place just to the right of where his nose had once been. "The most beautiful man I've ever met."

"Enoch," Beast hissed. He was trembling. He didn’t move away. "Enoch, you can't really -- "

"I can," Enoch said. He kissed Beast's cheek again, sliding his mouth down to Beast's jaw and inhaling there, drinking deeply of Beast's scent. Cologne. Soap. A little sweat. Blood. "God, how I do. You're beautiful. You're perfect. And I love you, and you drive me insane -- "

Beast was panting, hands fisting in Enoch's shirt. "I... I can't believe you..."

"Believe me, Beast. I love you," Enoch said. He nuzzled Beast's neck. "I love you, and you're beautiful, and I want to make you happy."

"Prove it," Beast said.

"Tell me how.  I will do anything," Enoch promised.

"Kiss me."

Enoch groaned. He turned his head, held Beast with both hands, and pressed his mouth to Beast's. The scars, and the mutilation, and the nerves… he was throbbing in his pants, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter, not when Beast's mouth was tight and trembling beneath his, and then suddenly soft and sighing and so sweet.

Enoch kissed him slowly, rubbing his lips against Beast's, making their lips interlock for long, sweet seconds before pressing Beast's mouth with his own, teasing his lower lip, shifting their position, skin sliding against skin. His Beast was cold, cold all over, but his mouth was warm, and Enoch tugged on his lip just a bit, almost breaking their kiss to grin at the soft whimper the tug elicited. He threaded his fingers in Beast's hair and kissed him, petting down his neck, feeling two piecemeal hands alighting on his body. Beast’s breath was soft and humid against his skin, and beneath the fragile skin of his neck, Beast’s pulse thundered.

Enoch smiled into their kiss and interlocked their mouths again.

Beast drew away first. He was panting for breath, and he stared at Enoch in the lamplight, cold air slicking over his lips with every frantic breath.

He didn't say anything, choosing instead to lunge for Enoch's mouth again. Enoch groaned, this time, and almost embarrassed himself when he felt Beast's hot tongue brush lightly against his lips. It had been a while for both of them, he thought, but Beast in particular, and Beast came after him with that starving man's intensity that left him so incredibly weak.

Beast’s soft, scorching tongue slid across Enoch's, and a thrill zinged up his spine; Beast was in his mouth. Beast was _in his mouth_.

Beast pulled away from this kiss, too, and stood still just inches away from Enoch, breathing heavily.

"You let me kiss you," Beast said. He sounded so lost.

Enoch held him close. "Yes. I did. Please do it again. As many times as you like."

"You actually," Beast said. He swallowed and his throat clicked. "You honestly..."

Enoch didn't say a word.

"Feel that way," Beast concluded.

"Love you," Enoch said. "Yes. I do. And I want you."

Beast shivered. Enoch felt it everywhere. Enoch held him closer.

"This is impossible. You're beautiful," Beast breathed. "You're so beautiful, and you're so good. You're a good man, and I'm... and the things I think about you…"

"Oh, go on," Enoch smiled.

Beast's colorless eyes look up into his.  

"Really?" he asked softly.  "Really?"  His lips pulled back to show the edges of a small, tentative smile.

It was so pretty, Enoch just had to kiss it.

Enoch was in the midst of mapping every bit of Beast's mouth by touch when he felt Beast's hand, which had latterly been on his chest, start sliding up behind his neck. This almost distracted him from the way Beast pressed the full length of his body against him, nice and close. Enoch inhaled sharply and broke the kiss.

"Oh, hello there," he crooned, all approval.

Beast wasn’t looking at his face. Beast was staring between them, or more specifically at their hips.

"You're hard," he said. It was almost a squeak.

"Oh, yes," Enoch agreed. He shifted his weight a little, spreading his legs, and Beast positively ogled. "I'm well aware of that. I have been, more or less, since you killed Mr. Fred."

Beast finally managed to look him in the face. "That long?"

"On and off."

"Violence excites you," Beast said. His eyes were as clear as ice.

"No," Enoch said, carding his fingers through Beast’s hair. "Your violence excites me. The number of times I've been glad you have long tablecloths..."

Beast whimpered and came in for another kiss, pressing his hips against Enoch. Enoch caught him and lifted his eyebrows, surprised as Beast’s daring. That was very forward of him.

He absolutely did not have it in him to criticize Beast for it. Not at all.

When Beast broke the kiss, he panted for air and hissed against Enoch’s lips. "Oh, my God. You were hard for me? And I never -- I didn't even think to --”

He swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “My God, you're big."

Enoch laughed and kissed his lips lightly, kissing his cheek as well and purring in his ear. "Entirely your fault, my dear."

Beast cupped his jaw with one hand and looked at him, eyes moving here and there as if making sure he recognized every part of Enoch’s face. Enoch smiled back at him, and felt his heart stammer in his chest as Beast tilted his head and caught his mouth up in another kiss.

And then another. Enoch was almost beginning to wonder if there was a convenient shadow into which he could steal Beast off, when Beast stopped cold in the middle of doing some really lovely things to Enoch’s tongue.

Beast broke away. Enoch could’ve whined. He did not let Beast go.

“Shit,” Beast rasped.

“Hmm?” Enoch asked.

“The roast.”

Enoch blinked and began to laugh.

Beast tried to bristle, but settled instead for letting Enoch hold him until he got himself back under control.

“Of course,” Enoch said at last, kissing Beast’s cheek, “the roast. Mustn’t neglect it. Not after all the care and attention you gave it.”

“We really should go,” Beast said. He stepped back out of Enoch’s arms, put his mask on, and took Enoch by the hand, almost as an afterthought. He took a step forward, but stopped, looked back at Enoch, pulled off his mask, and popped up on the balls of his feet to press another kiss to his lips.

Enoch cupped his hand around Beast’s neck and kissed him back.

“We must go home,” Beast breathed as they parted. “We really must.”

“Definitely,” Enoch murmured, rubbing his thumb against Beast’s right cheekbone. Beast was pressed full-length against him again, hands against his chest, fingers distractedly petting him. There was something very warm and firm wedged against Enoch’s hip and it had him grinning like a fool.

“What if they found us out here?” Beast asked, lightly kissing him. “What would they say, if they found the mayor of Pottsfield letting a destitute leper kiss him?”

“‘Lucky mayor,’” Enoch murmured, kissing his favorite destitute leper.

They remained there, tangled up together for another few heavenly minutes. Enoch was again considering the possibility of filling up a convenient shadow, especially since Beast was starting to make such lovely noises, but before he could act on the urge, Beast pulled away and solidified the decision by taking a few steps back.

“We have to go home,” Beast said, putting his mask on his face. “The roast is going to be dry.”

Enoch mustered the strength not to kiss him again just for saying that. Instead, he offered Beast his arm. More hesitantly than he had before, Beast reached out and took his elbow, settling himself into the crook of Enoch’s arm. He fit just the same, of course, and it was just as perfect as before.

They made it down a block before Beast took a deep breath. “Well. I’m sure you know. It must be obvious.”

“Hm?”

“Enoch,” Beast said in an exasperated tone. If Enoch didn’t know better, he’d say Beast sounded shy. “You know. You must know how I feel. Especially if I was so… overt, in the matter of your late blackmailer.”

Enoch smiled to himself as they turned onto Edel Avenue. “Oh, yes. I do have a little intuition. But it would mean a great deal to hear it from your own lips.”

They walked up the street and turned at the mouth of Beast’s walk, stepping onto his grounds. The air was so cold, tonight. Enoch felt lit up from the inside, and very warm.

“I love you,” Beast said quietly.

Enoch stopped, turned, and gently removed Beast’s mask. Beast let him, and turned his face into Enoch’s hand where it cupped his cheek. Enoch kissed him, wrapping both arms around Beast and pulling him close as Beast’s hands cupped the back of his head and clawed nicely at his back.

In the house, Turtle barked.

Beast gave his lower lip a gentle nip and Enoch’s hips twitched. Beast let out a breathy little laugh and drew himself away, slipping his mask out of Enoch’s hand and leading the way up to the front door.

“Come along,” Beast said, beckoning him with one finger. “We have so much to talk about.”

Enoch grinned and followed him up the steps. Beast opened the door and stepped inside, Enoch hot on his heels. They almost bumped into Lorna in the foyer.

Oh. That was right.

“There you are!” Lorna said, taking off her scarf. “I was just about to go looking. How did it go?”

“Splendidly,” Beast said, tense. “We burned the car.”

“I thought I heard a bang. That’s probably for the best.”

“Yes, we thought so.”

“Well, come in and relax a little. I got the roast out of the oven a while ago, and I set the table while you were gone. Not with the nice china, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Beast said.

Lorna looked at them. A little divot appeared between her eyebrows. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes,” Enoch agreed.

The girl gave them a slightly suspicious look, her eyes focusing on Herod for a moment, before she turned and headed for the dining room.

Beast turned his head and gave him a look of flattering desperation. Enoch completely agreed with the sentiment.

“Could you possibly -- ?” he asked, nodding in Lorna’s direction.

“The poor child must be famished,” Beast said, sounding like he resented her for it. “I can’t turn her away.”

“Ah.”

Beast reached for his hand and gave his fingers a squeeze before dropping him again.

“Save room for dessert,” he said softly, and followed in Lorna’s wake.

The roast was excellent, but it might as well have been ash in Enoch’s mouth. He’d never thought less about food in his life, and he ate almost nothing, sitting so close and yet so far away from the man he’d only just managed to get his arms around. He knew Lorna noticed the tensions, because she kept casting concerned glances between him and Beast.

“Did it really go all right?” she asked at last. “You’re both so quiet. Did you quarrel?”

“No, nothing of the kind. It was all very nice,” Beast said. His voice purred. Enoch managed to keep himself from shivering. “I’m just a little tired, I’m afraid. You know how that kind of work takes the energy out of me. Perhaps I’ll have an early bedtime tonight.”

“You probably should,” Lorna agreed. “And we should all conserve our energy, in case the detectives wander by. Don’t worry. Mr. Barnes and I won’t keep you up.”

Lorna should speak for herself, Enoch thought. Mr. Barnes very much intended to keep Beast up.

Finally, finally Lorna put her fork down and dabbed at her lips. She looked expectantly at Enoch for a moment, before she said, “That was delicious, Herod.”

“Yes,” Enoch said. “Succulent.”

Beast looked at him with hungry eyes. Enoch struggled not to grin.

“You didn’t hardly eat, Enoch,” he said softly. “I wonder how you’ll keep up your strength.”

“I’m saving room,” Enoch replied.

“Is there dessert?” Lorna asked, collecting Enoch’s dish and her own. “Don’t get up. I’ll fetch it.”

Lorna disappeared into the kitchen and Beast reached out, seizing Enoch by the fingers.

“She’s a wonderful girl and I love her dearly,” Beast whispered. “Please don’t let me kill her to get her out of the way.”

Enoch laughed and kissed his hand.

“Oh, don’t,” Beast breathed, giving no indication that he would be taking his hand back. “If you only knew what that did to me…”

“Mmm. Feel free to educate me on the subject in great detail.” Enoch kissed his palm and let him go.

Lorna reappeared with a small fruit tart and made some silly noises about tea or coffee. Beast agreed to have a cup of tea, but Enoch only barely managed to drink his glass of wine.

“Mr. Barnes, are you coming down with something?” Lorna asked, as she slipped the last shreds of fruit between her lips. “You look a little flushed, and you haven’t eaten…”

“I do feel a little warm. Perhaps I should make it an early evening, too,” he conceded, watching Beast wrap his hands around his tea cup.

“Hmm,” Lorna murmured. “Well. Then let me not keep the party going too late…”

“Come by for breakfast on Sunday,” Beast said. “We’ll get something together, if we haven’t heard from any members of law enforcement before then.”

“All right. Are you sure you’re all right with the dishes…?”

“Absolutely,” Beast said. “I wouldn’t keep you here, my dear child. Thank you for coming on such short notice, anyway.”

“My pleasure. Good night, Mr. Barnes,” Lorna said. “I hope you feel better soon.”

Enoch smiled at her and rose from his seat a little. Beast swayed to his feet and took the girl out to the foyer.

The door opened and closed, and Enoch was pleased with his self-restraint. His heart hardly jumped at all, when the door closed.

He heard Beast throw the bolt.

Ah. There it went.

Beast swept into the dining room like a bat out of hell and Enoch only barely managed to stand before his host was upon him. Beast pulled away his mask and veil, dropping one on the floor and the other so carelessly on the table that it might’ve landed in a dish of supper.

Enoch found himself holding an armful of his Beast once more as Beast kissed him, impossibly hungrier than before, clutching at him with urgent, gloved fingers. They shared a hard, fierce kiss, Beast all tension and Enoch all hands, and only barely softened it into something that ended with Beast gently biting his lip and tugging it, releasing it with a soft pop that made heat burn low in Enoch’s guts. Their hips were locked together, pressing tight, and Enoch kissed Beast again, unable to stay away.

He managed to ask a question, after a few more long moments.

“Might I suggest,” Enoch asked, tensing a little as Beast rubbed his hips against him, “we adjourn to your bedroom?”

“Oh yes,” Beast purred. “Please.”

He kissed Enoch’s neck and lips and then the tip of his nose, giving him a brilliant smile. He began to draw away, but Enoch seized him and held him close again, chin propped on his head. Beast made a small, amused sound, and wrapped his arms around him in return.

Enoch cupped the back of his head like a precious thing, and just held him for a long moment or two. When he thought he could bear it, he let his grip shift and loosen.

“Lead the way,” he said quietly. “I’ll follow you.”

Beast flashed him another bright smile and passed quickly through the house and up the steps. Enoch followed in his wake, with Turtle bringing up the rear. Beast waved Enoch into the bedroom and closed the door on the dog with a murmured apology.

“Adults only, hmm?” Enoch asked, giving Beast a grin.

“I’m afraid so,” Beast said, leaning against the door. “Aren’t you a little overdressed?”

Enoch lifted his hands to his loosened tie, feeling something fierce burning low in his belly. He stripped the necktie off and watched Beast as he undid the buttons of his shirt.

“This feels familiar,” he said, basking in Beast’s avid attention. “You’ve watched me do this before.”

“Never to its inevitable conclusion,” Beast replied. He slowly paced away from the door, approaching.

Enoch undid the last button and rolled his shoulders back, shifting to shed the shirt. “I’m amazed you didn’t catch me then and there.”

“Oh?”

“Standing here, half naked in your bedroom.”

“I remember it vividly,” Beast smiled, reaching out to pet the thin fabric covering Enoch’s chest. He slipped his hands down and found the hem, sliding beneath. “Though not in as much detail as I’d like.”

“I was thinking about how nice it would be if you’d pounce on me and tear my throat out with your teeth,” he confessed huskily.

Beast stilled, his expression doing something a little strange and a little unreadable. He petted Enoch’s belly.

“I don’t think I could hurt you,” he said quietly. “I doubt I could bring myself to do it.”

“Oh, Beast,” Enoch murmured. He cupped Beast’s jaws in his hands and kissed him. “You’re a romantic.”

“Don’t insult me right before you go to bed with me,” Beast grumbled. “Why in heaven’s name aren’t you naked?”

Enoch laughed and took his undershirt off, reaching for his belt. “Of course, I hope you will still have a mouthful of my blood, sometimes?”

“Try and stop me,” Beast murmured, courteously assisting him with the removal of his belt. Beast’s clever fingers got his flies down and pushed the whole of it off of his legs. “Good Lord. Just look at you.”

“My blushes.”

Beast looked him up and down, lifting his left hand to his mouth. Enoch swallowed thickly as he bit the middle finger of his glove by the tip and slowly drew it off, letting the glove fall him his teeth as Beast reached out and wrapped his fingers around him. Beast pressed himself close and kissed Enoch just beneath the jaw, giving him a slow stroke.

“You’re gorgeous,” Beast purred.

Enoch’s knees were already weak. He settled his hands on Beast’s hips and held him close.

“I should sit down,” he said, closing his eyes as Beast toyed with him. Beast licked his hand and gave him a little squeeze, before stroking him very sweetly. His blood throbbed against Beast’s fingers and he felt himself leak as Beast kissed down his neck.

“Do I make you weak?” Beast laughed. “What a flatterer you are.”

“I’m helpless against you, sugar.” Enoch kissed him slowly. “I think it’s your turn to strip. Not that I’m desperately impatient to see you naked.”

Beast paused and swallowed. Enoch watched his expression carefully.

“Yes,” Beast said. “Of course. Why don’t you just sit down, and I’ll…”

He gestured vaguely to his body. Enoch kissed his forehead and cheek and sat down on the bed, spreading his legs a little.

Beast openly stared. Enoch gave him a saucy grin and beckoned him with a finger.

“Come join me,” he murmured, leaning back a little to let Beast take a nice long look.

It got him moving. Beast took off the other glove and tossed it to the floor. He raised his hands to his neck and removed the scarves that he’d pushed away from his head, letting them fall to the floor in a ripple of black fabric.

He picked away at his waistcoat and hitched his shirt out of his trousers. Enoch smiled, licking his lips in anticipation, but Beast’s hands quivered when he reached again for his throat.

Oh, Beast.

“May I?” Enoch asked, giving Beast his warmest smile. Beast stood as still as a frightened deer for a moment or two, and then heaved a sigh.

“That...may be wise, actually,” Beast said. He toed out of his shoes and took a few steps forward. He gestured at his face. “You’ve, ah, already seen the worst of it. Nothing to fear.”

Enoch reached out and took Beast’s hips in his hands. He pulled Beast close, shifting his grip to hold his jaws and kiss him deeply. Beast whimpered very softly and settled his own hands on Enoch’s shoulders, before sliding them down and wrapping his arms around Enoch’s neck.

“Keep your hands on me,” Enoch instructed. “Touch me wherever you like.”

Beast sighed and stroked his fingers across Enoch’s shoulder blades, over his shoulder, and down his chest.

Enoch kissed Beast’s cheek and throat, hands eagerly flying up to undo the line of buttons that ran down Beast’s shirt. The turtleneck underneath presented something of a problem, but Enoch contented himself with sliding his hands underneath it and touching Beast’s skin for the first time. Beast’s breath quickened and Enoch kissed him again, smiling.

“Poor thing,” he murmured. “You feel so chilly. I’ll have to warm you up.”

Beast laughed huskily. “Oh, Enoch. Clichés?”

“Classics are classics for a reason,” Enoch reminded him, sliding the turtleneck up his body as his hands ran across Beast’s skin. “And the sentiment is completely genuine.”

“Should I move my hands for this operation?” Beast asked, arching his eyebrow. Enoch watched it rise and grinned, pausing to crane his neck and kiss it.

“Only for an instant,” Enoch said. “But you’ll have to make up for the separation anxiety.”

“Mm. That’s more like it,” Beast admitted, peeling off his shirt and lifting off the turtleneck on his own. Enoch held him by the hips and watched, enthralled, as he lifted the sweater over his head and left his long, terribly lean torso free for exploration.

He was impossibly beautiful. His scars were clear and plentiful across his skin, gorgeous patches of mottled pink and old silver scattered across his body, ancient fingerprints from where pain and suffering had fondled him. They lingered beneath the grey hair on Beast’s chest and rippled over his pronounced ribs, almost forgotten.

His belly was concave, his ribcage as stark as a skeleton beneath the onion paper of his perfect, ruined skin. His throat was long and slender, as fragile as spun glass, strong and sinewy from where it housed his immaculate voice.

He was as white as leprosy, as thin as famine. Enoch’s artistic, icy, flawless Death, ravisher and ravished; wanton debaucher, all Enoch’s for the debauching.

Enoch groaned softly.

Beast got his head out of the turtleneck and glanced down at him. Enoch spread his legs a little to accommodate the throb his prick gave at the sight of Beast’s naked skin, and Beast’s eyes widened.

“Oh, really now,” Beast said, his tone dismissive but his expression giddy. He wasn’t used to schooling his face, Enoch realized. “You can’t be serious.”

“Put your hands back on me and I’ll show you just how serious I am,” Enoch promised. Beast reached for him again, skin goose-pimpled from the cold. And from excitement, Enoch certainly hoped.

He kissed the hollow of Beast’s throat and felt him purr beneath Enoch’s lips. Enoch worked his way down Beast’s body, rubbing his back with both hands and kissing the sharp protrusions of his bones. His nipples were sensitive and his concave belly fluttered beneath the brush of Enoch’s beard. He bowed his head and kissed Beast’s hips, sucking lightly at the bone promontories guarding the vulnerable valley of his stomach.

Beast slid a hand across his neck and tilted his head up, taking his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss. Enoch smiled into it and let his hands tease Beast’s belt loose, sliding it out of the loops of his trousers with a leathery hiss. Beast traced soft, fragile fingers across his scalp and the back of his neck as Enoch ran his hands around Beast’s back to cup his rear.

“Oh!”

“Mmm,” he murmured against Beast’s mouth. “Lovely.”

“Well, hello there,” Beast replied. “Don’t be shy on my account, Enoch.”

Enoch laughed and kissed him again, giving him another firm squeeze. He slid his hands back around to undo Beast’s flies and unzip his trousers. He ran his fingers between fabric and skin, pushing Beast’s clothes to the floor.

He broke the kiss and leaned back a little to see him.

“God,” he croaked, in serious danger for a moment or two of coming at the sight of him. “You’re beautiful.”

Beast’s hands tightened on his shoulders. Enoch ran his hands across his skin, petting him from torso to hips and down his emaciated thighs, admiring him. Long, lean, pale...hard.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, feeling dazed and stupid. “And you’re so hard. May I?”

Beast was gnawing on the inside of his lip. He nodded his head, eyes aflame, pupils blown wide.

Enoch shifted his legs apart and lightly traced his fingertips over Beast’s hard cock. He was only just a little warmer there, his skin darkened with the blood throbbing beneath his skin. Enoch wrapped his fingers around him, marveling at the way he fit in Enoch’s hand, and gently stroked him, feeling their skins slide together.

Beast whimpered. His body trembled against Enoch, and Enoch leaned up and kissed him again.

“So hard for me,” Enoch breathed. “So excited. God, what that does to me...what made you so hard, sweetheart? What did I do to make your cock stand so prettily?”

“Everything,” Beast whispered, dipping his head as if embarrassed. Enoch kissed his chest and held him close, one hand pressing against the small of his back. He wondered where Beast was numb. He wanted to kiss every numb spot.

“Good,” Enoch purred. “Then I’ll do everything to you. How could I not, when you’re nice and hard and ready for me?”

Beast’s cock leaked a bead of fluid and Enoch caught it against his hand, using it to ease a firmer stroke down Beast’s skin. Enoch grinned and glanced up at Beast. Beast was blushing.

“Hm. Can we conclude from this that you like having a little bit of narration in your assignations?” Enoch teased.

“You have a filthy mouth,” Beast breathed, sounding completely enamoured.

“I prefer ‘silver tongue,’” Enoch murmured. “I’ll use it on you, if you like. I’ve been daydreaming about it for months.”

Beast hissed quietly and Enoch caught up more of his leaking pre-ejaculate, smearing it across his prick and working him into a lather.

“So excited. Positively dripping for me,” Enoch crooned. He kissed Beast’s collarbone and gave it a little suck.

“E-Enoch,” Beast stammered, rolling his hips into Enoch’s hand. “You, ah, you really don’t know what you’re doing to me--”

Enoch kissed under Beast’s jaw and just behind his ear, sucking at the soft skin of his throat. Oh, Beast. So beautiful like this, vulnerable for him, completely exposed.

“Enoch,” Beast said again. Enoch purred, feeling his name work its way up through Beast’s throat. How lovely. And the way he pressed himself against Enoch’s hand, grinding that lovely hard length against his palm...

“I’m v-very serious. This is not...oh…Enoch, this is not going to last, if you keep…”

“You smell so good,” Enoch murmured, rubbing his back and feeling the way Beast’s hands clenched on his skin. “I can’t wait to taste you. If you’re ever strapped for ideas in the sweets department, dear heart, just let me have you for dessert. It’s really what I’ve been craving, anyway.”

Beast made a frantic little noise and clutched at his shoulders. “Enoch, for God’s sake! It’s been twenty years!”

“Then you must need this so badly,” Enoch sighed. He pulled Beast completely between Enoch’s legs, petting his back. “Just look how lovely you are…I want to take you in my mouth and swallow you whole. I would, if I could stand to let you go long enough to get on my knees...”

Beast’s hips twitched into his grip. That was so very nice. But it would be better still, if he could get Beast nice and slick. Perhaps a few nice, long licks would do it...

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Beast panted. He clutched at Enoch’s head and shoulders, all-but bent over him. “B-But I will, if you aren’t careful.”

“You cannot disappoint me, sugar,” Enoch assured him, kissing his cheek.

“Don’t torture me, please, I can’t hold on very much longer. I-It’s just been a long time, and I really -- ”

“Oh, now. Don’t you worry about performing for me, beautiful. I want to perform for you.” Enoch insisted, gave his wrist a little twist that had Beast’s hips chasing his retreating hand, trying to fuck his fist. He purred. “That’s very nice. I’ve wanted to do exactly this for so, so long, dear heart. Just relax, Beast, and let me please you.”

Beast made a beautiful little sound and shifted his head down at an awkward angle, fitting his mouth against Enoch’s in a desperate kiss. Enoch met him in everything, thrilled almost to distraction by his lover’s urgency.

He was leaking so much more now, and Enoch wasn’t much better off. He took his hand from Beast for an instant, long enough to swipe up some of his own pre-ejaculate and slick it across Beast’s cock, mixing it with Beast’s wetness until Beast was covered in both of them. Beast gasped and rutted against his hand.

“God, yes,” he breathed. “I can’t -- you’re going to make me -- ”

“Oh, yes,” Enoch murmured, kissing his cheek. “Please do. Please let me. Let me make you come, sweetheart.”

Beast made a sweet, pathetic little noise and clutched Enoch more tightly than ever, bathing Enoch’s grip with thick, hot come. For a moment Enoch was almost surprised at the suddenness of it. But the surprise was easily consumed by dark, smoldering satisfaction as Beast writhed in his arms, helpless and profanely beautiful, as shattered from Enoch’s spoken desire to pleasure him as from Enoch’s touch itself.

He was glorious when he came.

Enoch smiled and kissed Beast, stroking him through his orgasm. When he was panting and couldn’t do any more, Enoch held him gently, breathing in his scent and feeling the quivers that wracked his beautiful body. Beast leaned heavily on him, his orgasm having sapped the strength from his legs.

“How very flattering,” Enoch teased, nuzzling Beast as his lover gasped for breath, shivering in his arms.

“I’m humiliated,” Beast panted. He mastered himself enough to give Enoch a slow, sucking kiss. “You must think I’m very easy.”

“Nothing of the kind, my love.” Beast passed him a tissue or two from the nightstand. He wiped his hand and Beast’s cock, before pulling him closer still. “How soon can I make you do that again?”

Beast laughed against his mouth. “I’m not a machine, Enoch, good heavens.”

“I bet it will only take a few minutes. Care to take a gamble?”

“You’re insatiable,” Beast purred. He leaned down and kissed Enoch’s neck.

Enoch tilted his head for him and grinned. “I’m afraid it’s true. I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“Hmm,” Beast murmured, his own hand slipping down between Enoch’s legs. Enoch drew in a shaky breath as Beast fondled him, ruined fingers playing with his cock. “Well, this should go a long way to making up for it, I should think…”

“I’m...at your service,” Enoch promised him.

“Good man,” Beast sighed and kissed his lips, turning his face to nuzzle into his neck. “What can I do for you, Enoch? I warn you that it’ll probably take a little while for me to get used to your size. It’s the only reason I haven’t already tried to suck you under the dining room table.”

Enoch groaned quietly. The image alone!

“Mmm,” Beast laughed, kissing his throat. “You like the thought of that, do you? If you only knew the things I thought about, when I was on my knees with your blood pouring into my cup…”

Enoch flexed his hips up into Beast’s touch.

“I demand details,” he rasped.

“You have such dangerous tastes, Enoch,” Beast purred, kissing his jaw and licking against his skin. “You of all people should know that it didn’t end nicely for the last man whose prick I put in my mouth.”

“It does put being cock-hungry in a rather different light,” Enoch admitted shakily.

Beast let out a little giggle and gave him an earnest stroke, his free hand sliding up Enoch’s thigh. “In the interests of honesty, I can certainly say I am precisely that. And you know how I get when my appetites aren’t adequately satisfied, Mr. Barnes. Now that I’ve got you, I’m afraid I’m simply going to have to have you.”

Enoch shivered. He’d had this dream before.

“I’m all yours,” Enoch promised.

“Then we’re on the same page,” Beast agreed. He kissed down Enoch’s neck, stroking him with both hands. “What would you like? My hands? My mouth? I probably can’t take you deep, but I can certainly spend some time licking you and sucking your tip.”

Enoch let out a strangled groan. He wasn’t the only man with a silver tongue here. Beast’s other hand slipped underneath his cock and played with his balls.

“I want you to fuck me,” Beast breathed, kissing his mouth. “I need you to. I’ve needed your cock inside me since before that night on the dining room floor. I would’ve given anything for you to hold me down and fuck me, right there on the hardwood.”

“Beast...” Enoch croaked. Beast’s soft, cool hands teased him mercilessly, thumb rubbing just under his glans as his fingertips traced the base. Beast wrapped a hand around him and stroked firmly, and even his stumps tried to curl and grip Enoch’s cock.

“Hmm. It seems I’m not alone in liking a little narration, am I?” Beast purred. “I want you to stretch me for your cock and fuck me senseless and make me come on it. And so you shall. But for tonight...maybe I should take you. Would you like that? Have you thought about it?”

Yes. Vividly. Beast on his back and being vigorously satisfied was an image to adore, but Enoch's imagination was nothing if not rich and versatile. And Beast sinking deep inside him, filling him up, finding and taking his pleasure in Enoch’s body…?

Well.

“I have,” Enoch managed. Beast nuzzled him and have his wrist a twist.

“It’s such a pretty thought, isn’t it?” Beast murmured. “On your back, or on your hands and knees, hard and hot and waiting for me to please you. Spreading your legs for me and letting me look at you and touch you. My fingers inside you, stretching you open, getting you slick and loose so I can push inside you and feel you, hot and soft, pressing all around me.”

Enoch groaned, tugging Beast closer by the hips. “Please…”

“It would be so delicious,” Beast sighed. “Almost as delicious as taking you inside me. You’d be so gorgeous, even if it would look like you were letting a corpse fuck you.”

Enoch gasped and very nearly came at the thought of it. He gripped Beast tightly and made his urgency well-known.

“You like that,” Beast hissed. His hand paused, but his voice radiated aching desire. “You really like that. Oh, you are so twisted, aren’t you, my love?”

Enoch struggled for coherency, blushing from a heady mixture of arousal and shame. “It’s n-not -- I’m not a necrophile, Beast. It’s really just you, your body. You’re so beautiful, and it’s something about the thought of us together -- ”

“Well, thank goodness,” Beast said, letting out a little laugh. “I wouldn’t stand a chance against the more rotted Pottsfield folk. I’m a fine figure, I suppose, if you like the very specific type, but if I thought I had to compete for your attentions with Mrs. Petersen’s corpse…”

That did a lot to cool him off. He cringed a little. “Oh, please don’t mention her, Beast. I’ll lose my erection.”

“Oh, no, no,” Beast breathed. “We can’t have that. I think I have an idea.” He kissed Enoch’s lips and gave him one more long, lingering stroke. “Wait here for me.”

“I am going to crawl out of my skin,” Enoch grumbled.

“Just one moment, Mr. Barnes, and then I’ll be all and entirely yours. Wait for me?”

Amused that Beast seemed to think he had to ask, Enoch nodded and let him slip out of Enoch’s grasp.

“Get the bed warm, won’t you, my love?” Beast asked, as he pulled on his dressing gown. He flashed Enoch a smile and disappeared through the bedroom door, leaving Enoch alone.

Enoch pulled off his socks and settled between the covers, listening to Beast putter about downstairs. He heard footsteps on the stairwell within seconds and watched Beast struggle to get back into the bedroom without letting Turtle in.

“Poor thing,” Enoch observed. “We’ll have to let him in, eventually.”

Beast glanced up at him, eyes bright. He looked at Enoch for a long moment before heaving a deep sigh. His expression was utterly tender.

Enoch tilted his head and gave him a quizzical smile.

Beast shook his head and approached the bed.

“No, no,” Enoch insisted. “What was that about?”

“Nothing at all,” Beast said.

“Beast…”

“You’ll think I’m absurd,” Beast replied.

“I already know you’re absurd, beautiful. You might as well prove me right.”

Beast rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake...I was only thinking that I never thought I’d have you waiting for me in my bed, and that I hardly know when I’m going to wake up. That’s all. Are you satisfied? Is it every bit as saccharine as you thought it’d be?”

Enoch reached out a hand and took Beast by the wrist. He pulled Beast onto the bed with him, dragging him over Enoch’s chest -- he weighed nothing -- and kissing him. Beast squawked a little and tried to shift for balance, but soon responded to Enoch’s attentions. They kissed for a long while, until they were rubbing their hips together through the bedclothes.

“Come in here with me,” Enoch said, tugging on Beast’s earlobe with his lips.

Beast gasped. Mm. He was sensitive there. Useful information.

Beast sat up on Enoch’s lap and undid his dressing gown clasp. The black fabric split smoothly down the center and revealed all his nakedness in a way that made Enoch’s heart pound, and Beast slithered between the covers with him.

“What did you go and get?” Enoch asked, as they writhed naked together in bed.

“Ah, yes -- ”

Beast grabbed the dressing gown and rifled through its pockets a little. He was blushing again.

“I never thought I’d have this kind of company again, you see,” he said quickly. “So I’m not actually all that prepared in the...intimate aids department. And what I want to do with you will be much better if we’re slick.”

“You have my full attention,” Enoch remarked, rubbing his hands down Beast’s back and squeezing his ass. He ground himself lazily against Beast’s stiffened cock, pleased to find that it didn’t take too much time at all to get Beast hard.

Beast found his prize and held up a small bottle. Enoch laughed out loud and only managed to stifle himself by kissing the entirely unconvincing scowl on Beast’s blushing face.

“Olive oil,” Enoch sighed. “I adore you. Do you know that?”

“I can get the fresh herbs, if you think that would add to the experience,” Beast drawled.

“And let you out of bed again? Not a chance. I’ll just have to taste you au naturelle.”

Beast rolled his eyes and smiled a little, shifting until he was sitting up in Enoch’s lap. Enoch clicked his tongue and ran his hands over Beast’s skin.

“You’ll get cold, dear heart,” he murmured.

“Not for long.” Beast took his hand and tipped the cruet bottle over it, pouring out a few drops onto Enoch’s palm and then spilling some into his own hand. He set it aside, pressed his own hands together, and slicked his left hand over Enoch’s cock.

“Between my legs,” he instructed, stroking Enoch firmly. He spread his legs and tilted his hips back, exposing himself. “And along my thighs.”

Enoch was only too happy to comply. He ran his hands up Beast’s thighs, parting them slowly, and gave his hard prick a few long, admiring strokes. He teased his balls, smiling at the way Beast hitched his hips forward, and slipped his fingers down to rub firmly at the taut patch of skin behind his testicles. Beast mewled for him, spreading himself open as he pumped Enoch’s cock, and Enoch brushed his fingertips lightly across Beast’s hole for a few seconds.

He was so warm there. Twenty years, good gracious. He'd be so wonderfully tight. Enoch would have to stretch him so slowly. Could Beast come from being fingered? And how many times?

Enoch’s mouth watered and he swallowed. Perhaps he should let Miss Clara know he wouldn't be in to work on Monday. The weekend was already looking very busy indeed.

Beast bit his lips and canted his hips, offering himself even as he shook his head.

“Later,” he promised. “Soon. But later.”

“No rush, sugar,” Enoch said, giving his hole at last little stroke before sliding his fingers back up and massaging his perineum. Beast moaned. “I’m already pretty excited about whatever you’re up to now.”

Beast flashed him a brilliant smile and Enoch licked his lips at the sight of Beast’s skin gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp.

“Hands on my hips,” Beast instructed. Enoch made himself move his hands and settled them quickly.

Beast held his cock steady and carefully closed his legs around it, crossing his thighs with a little awkwardness and clenching them around Enoch’s prick.

“There, now,” Beast purred. He shifted his weight a little and Enoch’s breath stammered as his cock slid slick and hot between Beast’s legs, stroking against his prick and balls. “How’s that?”

“You’re a genius,” Enoch breathed. “Oh. I’ve said it before, but I mean it even more, this time.”

Beast laughed at him and tightened his thighs a little more. He braced himself with his hands on the bed behind him, planted between Enoch’s legs. He carefully started to lift and lower his hips, riding Enoch at a steady pace. “Genius, hmm? I wonder what the Nobel Prize application for this kind of project would look like…”

Inspired, Enoch used his grip on Beast’s hips, helping him lift and pulling him down a little roughly, pressing them together. Beast tipped his head back and groaned, the noise of dirty gratification zinging straight to Enoch’s trapped cock.

“Anyway, I can’t take credit for the invention,” he purred, breathless. “You may thank the Greeks.”

Enoch rocked his hips up against him, shuddering at the way his cock slid against Beast’s skin, rubbing between his legs and up across his genitals. He could feel every inch of him, hot and slick and so very willing, so lovely and tight, and all without the risk of hurting him. It was perfect; maddeningly, desperately perfect. He wasn't going to last.

“Cradle of civilization, indeed,” he croaked.

Beast laughed and leaned forward as far as he could. Enoch craned his neck to meet him and they shared a quick kiss.

Beast leaned back first, licking his lips. He rocked his hips down on Enoch several times, pumping him through the tight hole his legs made and driving Enoch ever more out of his mind.

“Apologies, darling,” Beast breathed. “The angle is very awkward. We’ll just have to kiss later.”

“I'm...g-going to hold you to that.”

“You feel so good,” Beast went on. “I’ve wanted this so badly, you know. And for so long. I don't...God, it almost feels like you're inside me. You’re so beautiful, Enoch, you’re so…”

He shook his head and closed his eyes, focusing on riding Enoch instead of speaking. Enoch gripped Beast’s hips tighter and rolled his pelvis up, holding Beast in place so Enoch could do the work. Beast gasped and shuddered, arching into it and letting Enoch have everything.

How long had he imagined this? Tucked in bed, safe in this haunted house, his gorgeous monster on top of him, all spidery lines and angles, as uncanny as an angel. Beast above him, cock hard, eyes bright, heart on fire with lust, letting Enoch pleasure and adore him.

It was everything he’d ever imagined. It was so much more. He wanted to do everything to Beast. He wanted Beast to do everything to him.

“I love you, Beast,” Enoch breathed. It was too much, too effusive, he knew, but he couldn't hold it back. “I love you, and you’re brilliant, you own my soul, and I love the way you trust me. You trust me, and you let me see you, and I love everything I see.”

Beast took in a breath that made his body shake. He whined aloud.

“I--I--I...love you,” he rasped. “I love you, Enoch. Please, don’t stop.”

“Let me move you, dear heart,” Enoch instructed, breathless. Beast let him do as he liked, and after a little awkward shifting Enoch got him repositioned. He couldn’t help but note the comparison to side saddle, which brought to mind some rather silly thoughts about Beast riding him like a stallion.

But such nonsense hardly mattered, when the new position meant he could hold Beast against his chest and kiss and touch him so much more. He sat himself up a little higher, holding Beast’s hips in place and thrusting up against him as Beast kissed his mouth and ran his hands across Enoch’s face and shoulders, making the sweetest little noises.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just so -- ” Beast gasped against his lips. Enoch gave him a rough thrust and slipped a hand down to play with his hard cock. “Ohh, Enoch. I love you. I love you. I want to die in your hands.”

Enoch kissed him and pumped his hips up against him, sliding them together and stroking Beast’s cock.

“I’m so close,” he panted against Beast’s mouth. “I love you. I c-can’t -- I need to -- ”

“Do it,” Beast whispered. “Let me feel you come for me. I want it. I’ve always wanted it.”

Enoch gripped him hard and started fucking his legs more roughly, holding him right and growling from unbearable pleasure.

Beast gasped against him. “I love you. I adore you. I trust you, Enoch, I trust you with my soul -- ”

Enoch held him tight, one arm around his back and holding their heads together, the other still working Beast’s hips on him. Beast clutched at him with both hands and tilted his head. He shifted, moved -- and bit Enoch’s neck. Hard.

Enoch came with a breathless shout, hips snapping up against Beast. Beast growled against his skin and clenched his jaws, rocking his hips in Enoch’s lap to ride him through his orgasm, and Enoch moaned like a dying man as wave after wave of searing pleasure wracked across his nerves and flooded his brain. In Beast’s bed, between Beast’s thighs, in Beast’s mouth…

He panted for air, mind entirely empty, and wondered if Beast really had torn his throat out. How perfect. How heavenly. If he had to die, goodness, but there were many, many worse ways to go.

He felt Beast move against his neck, Beast’s hair brushing against his cheek. Beast released his bite and gave Enoch’s neck a slow lick, before shifting away and covering the fresh bite with his hand.

Beast kissed him softly and smiled at him. “May I assume you enjoyed that?”

Enoch caught his breath and leaned back, grinning at Beast like a fool. “Mmmm. What gave me away?”

“The filthy mess all over my thighs is something of a clue,” Beast purred, petting his head and neck. “But then that ridiculous smile on your face isn’t doing much to help you keep your secrets.”

“I’ll have to work on that,” Enoch sighed, drawing Beast close.

Beast nuzzled the unbitten side of his neck. “Don’t worry. I didn’t break the skin.”

“There’s always next time,” Enoch suggested. He kissed Beast’s temple and smiled as Beast’s hands dreamily wandered across his next and chest. “You’re still hard.”

“Can you blame me? That was a stirring performance, to say the least.”

“Hmmm. I never imagined you’d like to watch. How exhilarating,” Enoch purred. He teasing Beast’s tip with his fingers, idly playing with him. “Any suggestions for what to do with this lovely thing?”

Beast kissed under his jaw. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage…”

“Darn.”

“But I thought you mentioned something, in passing, about swallowing me whole?” Beast asked softly, running a finger along Enoch’s sternocleidomastoid muscle, down between his collarbones, and onto his chest.

“Mmm,” Enoch smiled, licking his lips. “Say no more.”

Beast gave him another of those bewitchingly giddy grins -- Enoch was certain that Beast would be appalled to know how unrestrained his expressions were -- as Enoch all-but picked him up and put him on his back in bed.

“That’s a figure of speech, by the way,” Enoch mentioned, as he ran his hands down Beast’s belly and kissed down his treasure trail. “Say whatever you like.”

“You’re very dirty,” Beast murmured, all approval. His hands settled on Enoch’s head and he gasped as Enoch puffed a laugh against his cock.

Enoch had indeed made a mess of Beast’s thighs, but he left the mess there, wanting to enjoy it a little while longer. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely well-mannered of him, to so enjoy the sight of Beast dirtied and marked by lovemaking, debauched and claimed as he was, but that was the way of it. At least Beast didn’t seem particularly distressed by his state of affairs.

Enoch gave the mess a quick lick, just to taste himself on Beast’s skin, and shuddered as he drew his tongue up Beast’s cock.

Beast gasped and arched like a bowline.

“Someone’s excited,” Enoch drawled, licking him again. The olive oil added a little something, he thought, but it wasn’t quite what he was after. He wanted Beast’s taste.

“I won’t last long,” Beast admitted, fingers petting his head. “You’ve got me very worked up.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m...not proving myself to have much stamina, am I?”

“No, and I might tell you it is such a chore to think I can make you come twice in a single assignation. What a blow to my pride,” Enoch murmured, giving him a kiss on the tip.

Beast tched him and stroked just behind his ear. Enoch purred and gave Beast another long, slow lick, before wrapping his lips around the head of his cock.

Beast breathed out in a long, harsh rush. Enoch felt a smug sort of warmth burn at the back of his head as he worked his tongue carefully around his mouthful.

It had been a while since he’d done this, but fantasizing about it so fervently had helped him remember how to cover his teeth and pin his partner down. He stroked Beast’s hip and sank his head further down on him, just shy of pressing Beast’s cock into the back of his throat before he came back up, pursing his lips around Beast’s tip with a loud slurp.

“Oh, God,” Beast breathed, head rolling back against the pillows. His fingers flexed against Enoch’s scalp and he tilted his head back up a little to look Enoch in the eye. “I definitely won’t last long.”

Enoch winked an eye at him and smiled. He swallowed Beast up again, licking at his skin and relishing the heavy, hot weight of him against his tongue, rubbing against his lips.

His Beast, in his mouth. Down his throat, some day soon. He hadn’t thought this was a possibility, when he’d walked up the steps at six o’clock this evening. But here he was, between the legs of the idol of his affections, sucking his gorgeous cock, listening to him gasp and moan and sigh oh-so sweetly for him.

“That’s so good,” Beast breathed. “Oh, you’re going to kill me. Don’t be afraid to be a little rough with me. I won’t break.”

Enoch bobbed his head again, sucked a little harder, and squeezed his hip. Beast was going to have bruises in the morning. Enoch couldn’t wait to kiss them all better.

Beast groaned for him, breath coming hard, legs spreading wide for him. Enoch stroked his hip with one hand and cupped his balls with the other, toying with sensitive flesh between fingers and tongue. He licked and sucked until the olive oil flavor was gone and only the taste of Beast’s own meat lingered on his tongue.

He was delicious. Enoch was very serious about having him for dessert.

“Enoch, please,” Beast gasped, breath coming in as a sweet rasp with every attempted thrust of his hips.

Enoch managed to get a just few more good sucks in, before Beast made a frantic little noise of warning and tried to push him away. Enoch looked up at him, catching those exquisite, unearthly eyes with his own, and deliberately sank his head down on Beast’s cock, taking him almost to the root and working his tongue as he sucked. He wanted everything. And he’d have it.

Beast’s eyes widened and he gasped like a dying thing, clutching Enoch tight as he came in his mouth. His come was hot and acrid and it almost made Enoch gag as it hit the back of his throat, and Enoch moaned as it splattered thickly across his tongue.

God, that was good. Beast, _in his mouth_ : it could become a serious fixation. His cock gave an exhausted twitch, deeply interested in the proceedings but unable to act upon its fascination.

Enoch swallowed Beast’s release and licked him clean with a few easy passes up. He sucked him to the tip and gave him a soft kiss there, before sliding back up the bed to kiss Beast’s mouth.

Beast was limp and undone on his bed, still breathing fast. He smiled and curled an arm around Enoch’s shoulder, kissing him very gently on the lips.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “That was incredible.”

Enoch smiled and pulled him closer, wedging their bodies together. He licked his lips. “Agreed. Let’s do it again.”

“Absolutely not,” Beast purred, eyes closing. He nuzzled against Enoch’s neck. “I’m exhausted. Couldn’t possibly get hard again. Not for another half-hour, at least.”

Enoch laughed at him. “Twenty years is a long time,” he allowed.

“And you are a beautiful man,” Beast added, peeping one eye open. “That counts for a great deal, you know. I can’t believe you’re here, with me. Like this.”

Enoch rubbed his hand across Beast’s back. “The feeling is mutual, sugar.”

“I’m so unused to this,” Beast said. “It’s been so long, and never like this before. If I could stay awake, I would. I’m afraid to fall asleep. I don’t want to wake up from this.”

“You won’t,” Enoch promised.

Beast laughed and kissed his chest. “You make that sound like such a threat, my love. How terrifying.”

“I love you,” Enoch said, because he did, and really, what else needed so much to be said as that?

Beast sighed and squeezed him tighter.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I don’t deserve to love you. But I do, Enoch. I do.”

He deserved everything Enoch could give him, and more. Enoch knew it, as true and undeniable as anything could possibly be.

But of course, Beast wasn’t going to believe Enoch if he just said it.

Oh well, Enoch decided as he dozed off. He’d just have to prove to Beast that it was true. Over and over again, if need be.

What a shame.


	16. Epilogue

P.I. Aloysius Frugg peeled distractedly at the damp wrapper of his beer. Across the table, former Detective Benjamin Tode drank half of his beer in a long, hard gulp and licked at the hairs of his scruffy moustache. The ponytail was doing Tode no favors, Aloysius thought.

How Tode had changed. It hadn’t been six years since his forced administrative leave, but the difference was night and day. Ever on the tall and gawky side, Tode had become a strip of man-jerky, left in the sun too long and nibbled at by wild things that lived close to the ground.

“I spent five years on river boats,” Tode rasped. His voice had been ruined by cigarettes and bad whiskey. “Lifting poles, toting barges. It’s simple, on the river, and when the swamps close around you, it’s like you’ve already been dead and buried.”

P.I. Frugg ran a hand through his receding hairline.

“Why’d you call me up, Ben?” he asked. Tode tapped a cigarette out of his carton and lit it. He gave Frugg a long, steely look, and offered him one.

Frugg took it.

“How’s Shelly?” Tode asked.

“Shelly’s good,” Frugg said firmly. “We’re all good. So I’m asking you again, Ben. Why’d you call me up? You left under a black cloud.”

“You know why I’m back,” Tode said. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t haunt you.”

“Bullshit.”

“We found something in the woods ten years back, in known killing grounds. And we didn’t chase it down and get our man.”

“There was nothing to chase,” Frugg replied. “Dogs found nothing. Trackers found nothing. Car burnt out, dead man we can’t ID -- never did ID, matter of fact.”

And you started to crack, he didn’t add. That had been the beginning of the end, for Detective Tode. P.I. Frugg didn’t necessarily hold himself accountable for his partner’s long, slow descent into disgrace, but he was intimately aware of the fact that he’d been the one to see the beginning of the fracture.

“We knew who it was,” Tode said. Another beer appeared at his hand and he twisted the lid of it with a jerk of his calloused, river-rough hands.

“It stopped, damn it. No more sick displays, not anymore. Nowadays you only hear about that sick shit getting found way out in the fuckin’ boonies, sometimes years after whoever the fuck was planted. It’s not him.”

Tode laughed a hard, humorless laugh. “He sank right back into the dark, like he’d never been there before. And they’re still finding the bones he picks clean.”

“We ripped Bethlehem apart, Ben,” Frugg said. “Tore up that shitty house who fucking knows how often. The commissioner busted the captain back down to fuckin’ corporal for it. Harrassing a local mayor or some fucking shit. And Bethlehem came up clean every fucking time.”

“He was playing us,” Tode said. “Laughing at us, all the time. And it’s not even a game for him. It’s...art. Something more vital. As if it could make him human again.”

P.I. Frugg sat back in his seat.

“You know, Ben,” he said. “I think I’m going to finish this beer and wish you happy trails. I don’t wanna be part of whatever this is.”

“You got a debt to pay,” Tode snarled. “A man pays his debts.”

“You got some fuckin’ sack. You’re asking me to trust you on this? Sight unseen? Fuck that, man, you was interviewing the old man every day of the week back then. You lost your fuckin’ mind.”

“I can prove it,” Tode said. “I can make you see it.”

Frugg blew out his lips.

“Let me show it to you,” Tode said. Frugg frowned. God damn, but he sounded like himself. “That’s all I ask. You can look at it and if it’s all cracked, then...shit. At least I’m getting a fucking second opinion.”

Frugg scowled at the scarred tabletop. Shelly wanted him home for dinner. One of his little girls was bringing home a new boyfriend and he had to be on his best behavior, even though this snotty little punk sure as fuck wasn’t good enough for his daughter.

“It’ll take two hours at the outside,” Tode said. “Let me show you. And you can walk the fuck away.”

“You won’t push this shit anymore, if I look?” Frugg asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be done. If it doesn’t convince you…” He made a noise with his mouth, kind of a pft, kind of a phuh. “Then I am outta bounds.”

“Fuck,” Frugg said. He drained off the last of his beer. “Lead the way, motherfucker. I’ll follow.”

He didn’t know it, then. He couldn’t have.

Tode took him to a storage unit on the far side of town and showed him the whole story, pasted on the walls of a nightmarish little room. It was sick: the family affair of it, the mayor, the girl. The banquet of blood in the basement. The well, and the bones, and the huge, slavering dog. The hooks and nooses and kiddie pools full of death, and the way Bethlehem presided over it all like the ruler of Hell.

But P.I. Frugg didn't know it, then.  He paid his tab and followed Tode out.

He never looked back.

***

One beautiful morning in May, Herod watched as Lorna took her master's degree and marched in procession with all the other scholars.

Lorna's wife was fidgety almost the whole way through, and sprang upon her bride with a flurry of kisses as soon as the ceremonies were over. Herod smiled at the impetuosity of youth and leaned closer to Enoch. Enoch settled his hand on Herod's back, rubbing his thumb gently across his ribs. The lawn of the university was green and brilliant under the May sunshine, and Herod smiled behind his mask as Beatrice cupped Lorna's grinning face and kissed her forehead.

"Congratulations," Herod said to Ms. Whispers, who stood adjacent. “You must be so proud.”

"I'm not the one you should be congratulating," Ms. Whispers wheezed, giving him one of the sidelong looks he'd long since grown used to.

"It's a celebratory day for everyone," Herod said innocently.

"Herod!" Lorna cried, eyes shining as brightly as they had on her wedding day. Herod spread his arms for her, embracing her warmly as she seized him by the waist and squeezed like a pretty, well-educated anaconda. "Thank you for coming!"

"Thank you for the invitation," Herod replied. "Congratulations, dear. This is a wonderful accomplishment."

"I couldn't have done it without help," Lorna said. She took Enoch's hand and turned the handshake into another hug. She kissed them both on the cheeks and turned to her aunt. "Oh, Auntie..."

Ms. Whispers was a little watery and commenced to blubbering at her niece as Lorna wrapped her arms around her and kissed her.

Across the lawn, a band began to play rather badly. Herod winced. Enoch caught it and smiled at him.

"Champagne, Beast?" he asked. "I think there's some lukewarm glasses still on offer."

Herod shuddered delicately and turned to Beatrice.

“We’ll see you both for dinner,” Herod said. “Seven o’clock.”

Beatrice shoved her hands into her pockets and smiled. "Sounds great. Can we bring anything?"

"A bottle of wine would be very nice. We're having pork and veal, and I know I can trust your taste. I've made the, ah..." He looked at Enoch and gestured with his fingers, trying to remember the word.

"Quinoa," Enoch supplied.

"Thank you. The quinoa salad that you like."

Beatrice gave him a crooked smile. "Ooh, yum. I want that recipe, Herod, and I'll pry it from your cold, dead hands, if I have to."

"Then you certainly shall," Herod replied. "Until them, I will do everything to preserve my mystique."

“We’ll see you then,” Beatrice said, as Lorna dragged her and Ms. Whispers off to meet professors and classmates.

"Shall we?" Enoch asked, offering Herod his arm.

"Please, God, yes," Herod sighed.

“I somehow get the feeling you don’t relish the world of academia,” Enoch observed, as they walked across the lawn and towards Enoch’s car.

“I did my time, Enoch. I won’t go back to such a cesspit, thank you very kindly all the same.”

“But you are a born scholar, like it or not. The blood will out.”

Herod hummed to himself. They walked in silence, and when they were away from the crowds, Enoch reached out and gently covered Herod's hand with his own.

Herod smiled.

"I was just looking at the calendar the other day," Enoch said, opening the car door for him. "It'll have been ten years, this coming January."

"Will it?" Herod asked, settling in. He watched Enoch round the car and shift into his own seat. "How time flies. I suppose we must do something about that. I can hardly imagine he won't make parole. I wonder if he and Ms. Whispers will have a Valentine's Day wedding."

"Mm," Enoch agreed, pulling out of the parking space. "No matter what, it might be a good idea to get out of dodge for a bit. I think I am due for a sabbatical, inasmuch as such a thing exists for men in my career."

Herod smiled. In their second year together, Enoch had taken an until-then unheard-of two week vacation and rented a fairly palatial log cabin deep in the woods of the Vermont hills. They'd spent the time wandering in the trees and exploring lost places, Herod going maskless almost the entire stay. They'd read, and napped, and tracked and hunted wild game, and lingered in a hot tub, and made love at all hours, often out of doors, and -- upon finding another pair of lovers tucked sweetly away from the world -- dined very, very well.

Perhaps they could go back. He would like that very much.

"I am sure Mrs. Clara Deen can form some kind of coalition to hold Pottsfield together for a little while," Herod agreed.

"No doubt," Enoch said, reaching down and lacing Herod’s fingers between his own. "And it'll give us a little time to let the fires of vengeance in your former groundskeeper's heart bank down."

"He'll be so enraged to hear that you replaced him in his former office. Although, I suppose I don't really pay you for your services."

"Hmm hmm. But you do find ways to reward me for due diligence," Enoch smirked. "I’m sure you never made quite the same offers to him. And it is a comfort to me to know you never spent so much time 'reading on the porch,' when he worked for you."

"Well, he never took his shirt off," Herod replied, dancing his fingertips across Enoch's knee.

Enoch chuckled darkly and covered Herod’s hand with his own. "Is this a way of saying you'd like us to go somewhere warm, for our little holiday?"

"I'll go wherever you like," Herod replied. "As long as there's decent cuisine and some kind of symphonic presence, I can make myself comfortable anywhere."

"You ask so little," Enoch teased. "Very well, then. Let's make a date. What would make for a good vacation? Six months or so?"

"Six months? Could you stand it?" Herod asked, astonished. "I imagine that after 21 days you'd be itching to sit in on an appeals board meeting."

"I might as well learn to control my baser urges now," Enoch replied. "Sooner or later someone's going to want my seat, and I imagine they'll have it. What can an old man do to object?"

"Old? Please."

"Old, yes. Falling apart, even. People are starting to wonder what I think I'm doing, chasing after a sprightly little 40-something like you."

Herod wiggled his head a little and slid his hand up Enoch's thigh. "What can I say? I've always had such a taste for a well-seasoned man."

Enoch laughed and brought that hand up to his mouth. “Don’t cause a vehicular incident, sugar. We’ve got company for dinner, and they’ll be crushed if they don’t get to eat your food.”

Herod smiled and let him drive in peace.

***

Enoch had settled himself on the Louis Quinze with a cup of coffee and the New York Times as Beast bustled around the kitchen. Enoch had meant to read Book World, but had soon lapsed into a doze with Turtle the Second curled up at his thigh and the afternoon sun filtering in through the curtains. He got tired easily. Such were the demands of the job.

Beast started singing to himself in the kitchen. Enoch smiled, recognizing the piece. The libretto had been finished for ages, but it seemed the music was still giving him fits. There was one particular leap that Beast couldn't quite get the way he liked it, and it was so fascinating, to hear him try all the different possibilities.

He drifted, listening to Beast start from the beginning of the piece and follow the established melody. He strained for the notes, hummed, trailed off, and began again. This happened twice more, quiet and beautiful but frustrating.

At last, he sank his voice deep and low instead of hitching it up. It flowed through the house, and he stopped abruptly, the sound snapping off at the root. Enoch's eyes flew open at Beast's sudden silence.

He sang it again, voice warm and wrapping around it, singing it faster and following it all the way through. Enoch got up from the sofa and walked into the kitchen in time to watch his lover roll the last meatball and finish the last whole note.

"Beautiful," Enoch said, kissing Beast's temple on his way to the sink.

“Thank you. I think it works.”

“It certainly works.”

"So much for my romantic lead, though," Beast said. "He can't possibly be a bass. I'll have to rework the whole story."

"Nonsense."

"The bass is the dispossessed king of Hell," Beast argued. "And a ghost."

"Some people find that romantic," Enoch smiled. "I suppose the girls will be here soon. Can I fix you an aperitif?"

"Please. I'll have whatever you're having," Beast replied.

"Bacardi cocktail, then."

Beast laughed quietly. "Oh, yes. Perfect. Who needs a subtle drink, I ask you?"

Enoch got the glasses with a smile. "Well, if the neighborhood is going to think we're lavender aunts, we might as well give them some evidence of it. And you can do worse than a pink cocktail. Where is the shaker?"

"In the drying rack."

Enoch found it behind a plate and glanced at the small pile of jewelry on the counter. He rolled his eyes and scooped the rings up in his hand. Beast always put them somewhere nervous-making, usually just by the sink. Granted, he hadn't lost an heirloom down the garbage disposal yet, but Enoch feared it was only a matter of time before one of these lovely things disappeared forever.

"I'm putting your rings by the refrigerator," he announced, placing them accordingly. Beast hummed and turned to wash his hands in the sink.

Enoch put the rings down carefully and peered at them. Strange.

"What's this, Beast?" he asked, holding one of the rings in the palm of his hand. It was much too big for Beast, and wholly unornamented by any stones. That wasn't his style at all.

"Hmm?" Beast dried his hands on the towel tucked into his apron pocket and came over. "Oh. That isn't mine."

"Yes, I thought not," Enoch said wryly, "considering that on you with would be a bracelet."

Beast rolled his eyes. "Isn't it yours?"

"No. You know I don't wear rings." He was sure to lose them in the fields at some point or another. It simply wasn’t worth it.

"Hmm," Beast said, plucking the ring out of Enoch's palm. He took Enoch by the hand and pushed the ring onto his finger. "It seems to fit."

"How convenient. And how sad that it isn't mine."

Beast clucked his tongue and took the ring off of his hand. He pinched Enoch's reading glasses from his shirt pocket and held them to his face, squinting at the inside of the band.

"No," Beast said, his voice taking on a wholly different tone. He passed Enoch the reading glasses and the ring, both. "It's certainly yours."

Enoch shoved the glasses onto his face and peered at the inside of the band.

Engraved on the inside of the ring band was, "Amor ultra mortem -- B"

Enoch nearly dropped it. He could feel how wide his eyes were.

"Beast," he croaked, looking back up and staring at his lover. "Should I understand this as a proposal?"

Beast gave him a look. "Oh, no, of course not. I just thought I would contribute to your sparse collection of accessories."

Enoch grinned hugely, heart hammering away in his chest. "You must think you're so smooth."

"I'm only smooth if it works," Beast replied.

"How could it fail? This is terribly elegant."

"Enoch," Beast said, his voice urgent. His shoulders were tight and Enoch immediately felt bad for keeping him on the hook. It hadn't been intentional, but even a decade in, Beast still got strange ideas.

"Of course I will marry you, Beast," Enoch said. He wrapped his arms around his lover and held him tight. Beast melted against his chest with a heavy sigh and wrapped his arms around Enoch's neck. Enoch kissed him, cupping the back to his head and dragging his fingers through his white hair. "Nothing could ever make me happier."

"Good," Beast whispered.

"May I ask: why now?" Enoch murmured.

"You're not the only one who's aware it's been ten years," Beast replied. "I decided that I ought to lock you up before you find some other little 40-something to chase."

Enoch let out a noise that really couldn't be classified as anything but a giggle and kissed Beast again. "You only want me for my tax benefits."

"I promise I'll make you a very merry widower, Mr. Barnes," Beast breathed, kissing his hand. "May I put it on?"

"Please." Beast slipped it back onto the ring finger of his left hand and Enoch grinned. "I'll have to get you one."

"Middle finger's probably the best choice for that," Beast replied. He pressed his lips to Enoch's knuckle, just above the ring. "And be proud of me. I didn't even think to cut your finger off and take it to the jeweler for size."

Enoch shivered. Oh, he still had it. "You really are smooth, aren't you?"

Beast huffed and rolled his eyes, but Enoch rubbed his back and slid his hands down to Beast's hips. Beast looked at him, surprise rapidly warming into something altogether different, and Enoch took advantage of his tilted head to kiss him firmly on the mouth. Beast melted against him and happily clung to him, and Enoch led him back against the kitchen counter.

“Seems the bass really is the romantic lead, this time,” Enoch murmured, letting his hands rub across Beast’s back. “Lucky me.”

"That would make this a comedy."

"I think that's about right.  It's certainly not a tragedy," Enoch replied, pressing him back against the counter and pinning him in.  He pecked Beast's lips and applied a line of slow, heated kisses down his neck.

“You, ah, seem pleased,” Beast observed.

Enoch wrapped his hands around Beast’s rear and gave him a squeeze. “Oh, I am. Let me show you how much so…”

“The girls will be here any moment,” Beast breathed, sighing as Enoch kissed him. “And I haven’t finished making that thing Beatrice likes.”

“This won’t take a moment,” Enoch purred, boosting Beast onto the counter with a quick gesture. Beast’s hands tightened against his chest, clutching at him. He always did seem to like it when Enoch showed off his strength.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Beast smiled, parting his legs so Enoch could settle between them and kiss him.

“Well, I have good reason for it,” Enoch purred. “I can back up all my claims, because I know my husband inside and out.”

Beast shivered and stroked his neck, his body warm and sweet against his chest.

“The door’s locked and the girls are almost always late. Why don’t you put the meatballs in the oven and remind me exactly how well you know me?” he purred, kissing under Enoch’s jaw and giving him a little love-nip over some sensitive, fragile skin.

Enoch Barnes put the bacon-riddled remains of the seven year old child into the oven, kissed his husband, and ate dessert first.


End file.
